


The Path of Faith

by SandySalsa



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Post-Canon, Post-Quiet Isle, Sign Language, Slow Burn, Telepathy, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-04-09 12:25:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 82,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4348730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandySalsa/pseuds/SandySalsa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Winds are howling, and Sandor recognizes the Quiet Isle's new refugee. A tale of intervention, connection, and having faith. </p><p>This piece attempts to answer the question, "If Sansa were bolder and Sandor were gentler, what would happen?", with the basic underlying principle that the characters can survive this world on their own, but need each other in order to thrive in it. This fic was born from the idea of Sandor teaching Sansa sign language, and how signing rather than speaking may affect their bond (but there will still be plenty of dialogue!).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sandor 1 (Part 1)

**Author's Note:**

> I will be keeping a tumblr blog for this story; please follow it and feel free to interact with me there! The name is "Sandy-Salsa". That's where I intend to post the bulk of my "notes".

The snow was coming down harder than of late when the Elder Brother's mule appeared over the hill, followed by a thick bundle of clothing clinging to a second mule. It appeared to be a woman, but they were so slumped over their horse, it was hard to know for certain. One of the brothers had spotted them crossing the mudflats, and the Elder Brother had gone to receive the stranger onto the island commune.

The ground had quickly hardened with the early signs of Winter upon them, but there were still corpses to bury in it. The work was twice as laborious, but Sandor didn't mind. There were half as many corpses making it to their shores anyway, now that less people were able to travel. He doubted less people were dying, however.

Sandor was hard at work as the pair traveled a footpath through the snow to seek shelter. He moved around the grave so that he could watch their progression while he worked. The Quiet Isle occasionally had a visitor or two, and while Sandor didn't give two shits about any of them, it was still something that broke up the monotony. People came to the refuge seeking many different things, but all for the same reason: because they're weak.

The bottom half of the fabrics worn by the newcomer were caked with mud and snow. They had been extremely lucky to have crossed the mudflats at all, without an escort. The Brothers said that only the faithful may cross safely on their own, but Sandor just called it luck. The mudflats were treacherous; covered in quicksands, and the tide could overwhelm you in an instant if you didn't know when to expect it. When the tides were up, the water was so deep and the expanse so great, the only passage was by ferry.

The snows were just below his knees now, but in the coming months, Sandor suspected they would pile so high that even a man twice his height would drown in them. He was surprised _more_ people weren't coming to leech of this place.

_Just like you are, dog._

"Gravedigger!" Sandor snapped his head up at the shout from the Elder Brother through the swirling snow. He was waving an arm to get his attention. Tossing the shovel into the half-dug grave, Sandor strode over to where they were stopped. He was off his mule, but his companion was still mounted.

"Gravedigger, thank you for your haste," the Elder Brother greeted as he approached. He gestured to the figure. "Would you mind helping our guest off her mount and to the cottages? She barely made it into the saddle on her own, I think she needs to be carried."

Sandor only nodded in reply. The men who dwelled on the Quiet Isle all took vows of silence, as penitence for their sins and crimes. The Elder Brother was the only one who spoke outside of confession, but he spoke enough for them all. The vow lasted ten years, and the Elder Brother had already done his time when he came to this sanctuary long ago.

Sandor had refused to take such a vow, as he refused all vows, but had agreed to follow whatever rules were laid out for him so long as he was a guest there. For this reason he still donned novice robes, despite his nearly two years of penitence. He still attended confessions and bowed his head in a show of prayer in the sept, still tended the crops and dug graves for the sorry shits who washed up. It was far from the worst orders he had obeyed for the sake of a comfortable existence, and the least he could do for the man who saved his life. Sandor was free to leave as he wished, but as long as he was to stay here he would abide the lifestyle. He had no intentions of leaving, besides. Elder Brother still hoped to convert him, Sandor suspected, and he had never seen the benefit of telling him such hopes were in vain.

_All hopes are in vain._

Confession was the only time Sandor spoke, and in those private moments with Elder Brother, he had confessed all. It hadn't been easy at first, and every now and then he would still have an angry outburst. With time, however, the silence and the confessions had done much for Sandor's rage.

Elder Brother wanted him to feel remorse for all the lives he'd snuffed out, and over time, he genuinely did. However, at times, Sandor felt _more_ remorse for all the lives he spared. Starting with the Imp.

Sandor couldn't see the girl's face, obscured by the hood she wore, but brown locks of hair spilled out of it. Sandor had thought her unconscious at first, but then she turned her head to gaze up at him. Her face was still obscured under all the fur and hair, but he could see her eyes were blue.

Sandor scooped the girl up into his arms effortlessly; she felt lighter than he would have expected, even from such a small person. She was shivering all over, though Sandor could barely feel it through the thick bundle she was shrouded in.

"You're going to be all right, child," the Elder Brother assured her as he motioned for Sandor to follow him, while another Brother came to take their mules back to the stables.

"We must hurry," the man was saying as he led the way. "Winter is fast approaching, and she's half-starved, maybe wounded. She will be having a lengthy stay, I suspect. Poor thing."

Sandor nodded in reply again, and they started up the hillside towards the women's cottages. Women did not take up permanent residence at the Quiet Isle, but the brothers kept space available to them all the same, for when they did seek out the healing powers of the Elder Brother. Women and men were not allowed to sleep under the same roof here without being wed, and thus their quarters were kept a good distance from the cloisters where the brothers slept.

"Gravedigger will fetch you food and clothing once we reach your room," he addressed the girl again, "But tell me, are you injured, or in need of immediate assistance?" The snow was whipping at their faces angrily, growing more intense as they trudged on.

Sandor felt the bundle shift in his arms as she shook her head in response. He looked downwards as the girl lowered her hood, clumps of snow falling from it as she did so. Her hands were bone white and near bone thin. The hood revealed a crown of mud brown hair, but with how the light of the setting sun bounced off it, it almost appeared red at the roots.

_You see only what you will yourself to see, dog._

He turned his gaze forward again as her head inclined to look up at him, and they reached the top of the hill.

"The Gods are good, then," The Elder Brother praised. "Do you have a name, child?"

"Alayne," she whispered. "Alayne Stone." The girl's voice was dry and weak from unuse and the cold when she spoke, and thick with exhaustion. Her head slumped against Sandor's chest while he carried her the rest of the way to her room, his limp seeming to lull her.

Ducking through the threshold, Sandor gently laid the girl on the pallet bed. With some effort she sat up, and lifted her face to smile weakly at the two holy men before her. "Thank you," she croaked in a tiny voice.

"We are here to serve," the Elder Brother said, smiling gently at her. "Gravedigger, I thank you again for your help. If you could fetch some accommodations for our guest, I believe she will be glad of some dry clothing, and is in desperate need of a hot meal."

"Gravedigger?"

Sandor blinked and hurried out of the room hastily, having forgotten himself. He had never been so thankful for the cloth that covered his mouth, for it had been hanging wide open from the moment he had gotten a good look at Alayne's face.

He had never met an Alayne in his life, but he knew _her_.

_Sansa._


	2. Alayne 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alayne takes in her new surroundings.

Once the larger Brother left to fetch her food and dress, the Elder Brother bent over the room’s small hearth and got a fire started. He was tall, Alayne noticed, now that the even taller man had gone. He also chose not to don a hood or cover his face, so she had a clear view of his bald head and strong features; he had a warrior’s build, but also all the sincerity and gentleness one would expect of a holy man.

Everything was such a blur. She still wasn’t quite sure if she was dreaming. _Or maybe I died,_ she thought darkly, _and this is what the afterlife is like._

“I am very blessed to have such a gracious host,” she bowed her head sincerely, although her voice was still raw and hoarse, her back slouched. “I was utterly lost, but for the grace of the Gods that guided me to you.”

Alayne had just gotten past the Bloody Gate when the snows began to fall in earnest, and her descent down the Vale of Arryn had been torturous and slow. She had no idea how long she had been out there for, a week at the least, but she had brought no food or supplies for her journey. Her flight had been a spontaneous response rather than a calculated effort, and she had no survival skills besides. She had sustained herself mostly on snowfall and--out of pure desperation--bugs, and she didn’t know how to start a fire to warm herself. That much, at least, she had tried to prepare for. She had brought along every cloak and blanket she could find, and by the end of it she had been wearing all of them in her attempt not to freeze to death.

The snow had nearly killed her, but it had been a blessing as well. It would slow the pursuit of her, or so she hoped. _Nobody is going to be a in a hurry to brave the snows to find a bastard, are they?_

She began shrugging off her many layers, and the Elder Brother examined her, checking for signs of frostbite. When he was finished, he stood at his full height again and said, “You were very lucky to make it in this weather without losing a limb; I would like to monitor you over the next few days, however, to be sure the redness in your fingers and toes doesn’t turn black. You were fortunate indeed to find us here, praise the Gods; I am not a boastful man, but I must confess I am learned in the arts of healing.”

Alayne bowed her head in thanks. “I am even more fortunate than I knew.”

“We are very pleased to have you, Alayne Stone. We hope our arrangements are to your liking.” He placed a comforting hand on hers before going to the door. “I will leave you to settle in, but please call for me should you ever need anything, or wish to talk. My brothers are vowed to silence, so great conversationalists they may not be; but they _are_ great listeners, and in time you may learn to communicate with them. You are free to roam and pray and speak as you please here, child; we can’t offer much, but we hope it will suit you.”

Alayne put on a warm smile despite how cold she felt in her bones. “It is more than I could have asked for, Elder Brother, truly I thank you. If there is any way I might contribute and lessen my burden on you, I should like to keep busy.”

The man’s eyes smiled when he did; it was refreshing. “It’s quite admirable for you to offer, and we will find a place for you wherever you seek it. Your first priority is to regain your strength, though. Gravedigger will return shortly with food, and then I suspect you must be exhausted as well.”

He wasn’t wrong. Alayne curiously felt so starved that she had no appetite, but she was nonetheless anxious for food to come. Her entire body felt weak and sore from her journey, and her eyes were heavy with drowsiness, intensified by the blooming warmth the hearthfire spread through the small room. Her appearance must be a dreadful sight, she realized.

_What good has beauty ever served me, anyway?_

Still, in spite of herself, the thing Alayne wanted most in the world--after food and rest--was a hot bath.

The Elder Brother bade her good night, and Alayne glanced out the window to see the sun had indeed set by now. She let all of her excessive clothing fall to the floor in a heap until only the dress she wore underneath remained. She slumped back onto the straw pallet, closing her eyes. It was so comfortable, so _warm_ , she almost wept.

She had just started to doze off when she was joined again by the one who was called Gravedigger. In his massive arms he bore a tray topped with a bowl of stew, hard cheese, bread, hot tea, and an apple. Draped over his arms were several garments of simple fabrics, and even a pair of slippers to wear indoors in the crook of his arms.

The man set the tray down at her bedside table and gently lay the clothing at the foot of the bed. Alayne sat up again, the scent of a hot meal awakening her appetite in earnest. She was _starving_!

Forgetting all else and filled with new energy, Alayne took the bowl of stew in her hands and wolfed it down greedily, barely chewing. It was hot, but not so hot as to burn her, for which she was grateful. She felt the stew roll down her throat into her belly, filling her with warmth. She had almost forgotten what that felt like.

Broth ran down her chin and neck, but she paid it no mind, not releasing the bowl until she had emptied it. When she did, she was mortified to see that Gravedigger was still there, and he had been watching her.

Alayne fumbled around for a handkerchief, lest she further shame herself by using her skirts. Even by a bastard’s standards, it was unseemly. Gravedigger seemed to understand, for he strode over and pulled a square of cloth from his pocket, handing it to her.

“Thank you,” She said as she hastily wiped at her mouth and chin. When she finished, she looked up into the only part of his face she could see: his eyes. They looked strangely proud.

“I apologize for my manner.” she said sheepishly. “I hope that next time we meet, I should give you a better impression.”

He breathed heavily out of his nose, and Alayne sensed he was amused. His eyes were intense, yet not ungentle. He had a warrior’s build too, and she found herself wondering how many broken warriors ended up here, seeking peace after so much violence. She couldn’t blame them; she had seen enough violence for herself, and she was only a maid.

_No, a bastard._

Gravedigger gathered up Alayne’s soiled garments off the floor, presumably to have them washed, and limped out of the room, closing the door behind him. She let herself relax and drop back onto the pillows, focusing her mind on her surroundings rather than allow her mind to travel back to the Vale.

She wasn’t sure anymore if the Gods really did answer her prayers, or if she had just gotten extremely lucky, but nonetheless she couldn’t stop a few tears escaping down her cheeks at the thought of what would have become of her had _some_ force not intervened.

 _I’d rather be dead than there_ , she thought, for the thousandth time. It was a mantra that had kept her going when she had felt her most hopeless. She had made her choice, and through the hunger and the exhaustion and the cold, she didn’t regret it.

Alayne put her mind back to the present, thoughts turning to the brothers she had just met. Elder Brother reminded her of her father. _Sansa’s father_. He was broad and strong, yet honorable, she could tell. He had come upon her just as she felt she would collapse and black out in the mud, and at first she thought she had been hallucinating. She had heard of the Quiet Isle before, but in truth, she didn’t know much of it besides knowing it to be a holy place where no one spoke.

All Alayne could observe of Gravedigger thus far were his eyes and imposing stature; he was so tall he had to duck through the doorway. There were only two people she knew before who had to do that: Hodor, and the Hound. The Mountain as well, to be sure, though she was not wont to think on him very much. Sansa had known them, not Alayne, but she couldn’t help but wish the Hound could have found this place before he died.

The Hound was supposedly last seen in the Saltpans, not far from here, raping and pillaging. That was over a year ago now. Alayne knew that whoever was wearing the Hound’s helm was not the true Hound, however; the rumor was absurd in her mind. The Mountain did those things, not the Hound.

No, she had the truth of it: his helm had been stolen. And if it had indeed been stolen, Alayne knew there was only one way of doing it.

The Hound had to be dead.

She had come to this conclusion and wept over it long ago, but she had made peace with his death now. She prayed he had found some for himself. She had thought of him often--for comfort, for courage, for guidance--and in that way, Alayne felt she’d honored him, in the ways she honored everyone else Sansa Stark had cared for. She had tried to push thoughts of those people away, bury them in the empty voids of her heart; but they always came back in the end. Alayne couldn’t let the fallen lie forgotten, even if they weren’t her people.

All of them were gone now, even Sansa herself. There was only Alayne Stone, the runaway bastard daughter of Petyr Baelish. She was utterly alone in this world, trapped in solitude even outside of the confines of the Quiet Isle. She wasn’t a man, could never take the vows of a brother...but mayhaps she would find some peace here for herself all the same.

Alayne reached for the apple, but her shrunken stomach protested at the idea. Exhaustion was ready to overtake her now, and she succumbed willingly, not having the strength to rise, let alone change her clothes. She fell into a deep sleep, feeling safer than she had in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since my chapters tend to be short, and I feel it "flows" better, I intend to post the two POV chapters back-to-back as I release them. At least within a day of each other!


	3. Sandor 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alayne is formally introduced, and Sandor agrees to teach her a new skill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive any glaring formatting errors; I'll be working on combing through and fixing them ASAP!

“Good morning, brothers,” the Elder Brother announced to the hall of monks, who each tapped their cups lightly to their tables in response. He had the girl at his side this morning in the common hall where they all took their meals; she still looked frail and gaunt, but after being fed and rested and bathed, she was already beginning to glow again.

She had slept for three days. A torturous three days, to his mind; Sandor thought she might have taken ill, or frostbitten, or worse. Elder Brother had requested no new graves, at the least, and it was with that knowledge that Sandor had had any comfort at all. He had not dared go to her without cause, and Elder Brother had been personally seeing to her care until he was sure she was stable.

He remembered the night she arrived, how horribly pale she had been, how  _ravenous_ . He replayed that night over in his mind countless times.

Tears had sprung to his eyes unbidden the moment he’d exited the cottage to gather food and clothing for the girl, and he had allowed himself a moment to weep in earnest once he reached the kitchens; many emotions had overwhelmed him in that moment, but most of all he felt  _relieved_ .

Sandor had never allowed himself to feel optimistic about the little bird’s survival in this war; even after he’d heard she ran away, he’d thought it was only a matter of how far she’d get before she was caught. He remembered that moment as being the moment he gave up.

But here she was.  _Here._ _Alive._

Seeing her face had struck him dumb, every bit as much like seeing a ghost. He had almost convinced himself she was as such–or that he was merely projecting onto this bastard girl–but his doubts had been extinguished as he’d observed her inhaling stew like the hungry little wolf she was.

And now, here she was again, standing before him as real as the driftwood cup in his hand.  _Sansa Stark._

Sandor stared at her shamelessly from where he sat,but he wasn’t the only one. All eyes were on the girl who was now being introduced as Alayne Stone. She was taller now—tall for a woman—perhaps a few inches short of six feet. She had the shape of a woman too, albeit a malnourished one at present. Her face had lost the roundness of girlhood, her features sharper and better defined now. Her eyes were bright with interest in her new surroundings, but there was something missing as well. Sandor’s stomach squirmed when he finally put his finger on it:there was not a shred of innocence to be found there.

_Wasn’t that what you wanted,_ _dog_? _Wasn’t it you who tried so hard to snatch that innocence from her once_?

“I want everyone to make her feel welcome,” the Elder Brother continued, an arm draped over her shoulders. “She is to be staying with us for awhile.”

Everyone was tapping their cups to the table again, some bowing their heads as a welcoming gesture to the newcomer. The Elder Brother invited her to break her fast in the dining area, and she accepted, her eyes searching for a place to sit. When her eyes found his, she smiled and started in his direction.

Although he knew it was because he was the only one familiar to her so far, Sandor’s heart hammered in his chest as she approached.

_She doesn’t know who she’s truly sitting next to._ If she did, she would surely shrink away from him, as she always had. He hadn’t forgotten his last encounter with the girl, and surely she hadn’t forgotten it either.

He had confessed himself hoarse to the Elder Brother in his first year at the Quiet Isle,and Sansa had been a frequent topic of discussion—in truth, she still was.

He suddenly felt unworthy of her presence, yet still she closed the gap between them with each step.

Since the girl in his recollections had auburn hair and a different name, the Elder Brother had seemingly not recognized her.  _Good._ Sandor knew he should tell him, should confess that the object of so much of his guilt and longing was taking her seat right next to him; but he would not.

A year or so prior, a beast of a woman had come here looking for the Stark girl; that much the Elder Brother had made him privy to. If the man were to find out who their guest truly was, surely he would contact the woman to collect her, and Sansa would again be lost to him. Forever this time, he was sure. Scenarios such as this weren’t like to come again, and Sandor was in no hurry to squander it.

He knew it was selfish, and he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t know what he hoped to gain from it—he couldn’t even entertain the thought of revealing himself to her—all he knew was that he wasn’t prepared to watch her go.

Besides, she didn’t  _want_ her true name to be known.  _Smart little bird_ , he thought. In this way he could feel justified in the reasoning that he was protecting her, should Elder Brother ever figure it out on his own. She was safer here than she would be anywhere else besides. Winter was soon to be here in earnest, after all; even if the bitch from Tarth wanted to, would she be able to battle the elements? He relaxed somewhat at that thought. There would be no way to guarantee safe passage, and Elder Brother wouldn’t risk the girl’s life just to spare a Gravedigger some inner turmoil.

_It’s bloody well likely he’ll find out sooner than later regardless_ , he thought as food was brought over to her. Elder Brother was dining with them this morning, and would surely take note of his interactions with her. Would she make a habit of joining him at meals? In spite of himself, he hoped she would. He looked down at his own meal,realizing he wouldn’t be able to eat in front of her without showing his face. It mattered not. His concern over the Elder Brother—or when he ate his meals—was no match for his desire to spend as much time as possible with her. To come to  _know_ her, in any capacity she would allow.

He turned to his right to face her, but only enough to look on her, careful not to reveal the ruin of his left side. The cowl he wore hid his burns well enough for them to go unnoticed under a passing glance, but the skin around his left eye was impossible to hide without covering the eye altogether, no matter how he tried to keep it hidden in shadow. Under scrutiny, she would come to recognize him. The fact that she could see his eyes made him vulnerable enough; how many times had he forced her to look into them? It had been years, though. Maybe she’d seen too many pairs of other eyes since then, and wouldn’t remember his.

Despite a distant twinge of jealousy at the thought, Sandor found it to be a secondary emotion. It mattered not:  _She was alive._

Up close, she was impossibly more beautiful than even he’d imagined she would be, and would be even prettier once her natural hair color grew back. She had to be ten-and-five by now, to be sure. Perhaps nearly ten-and-six. Still so young, but by the world’s standards, a woman grown.

“Good morning, brother Gravedigger,” she said in a polite whisper, as no one else in the room was speaking but for her now. Her voice sounded much better. Sandor nodded a greeting, before putting a hand to his throat and giving her an inquiring look.

It took her a moment to take his meaning, but when she did,she beamed at him and said, “Oh,yes,thank you--I’m speaking a little more easily today.” She took a fork in hand and took a bite of her eggs, savoring the taste of a decent meal.

When she saw him watching, she raised her fork and an eyebrow. “I told you I would leave a better impression, didn’t I?”

Sandor wasn’t sure how to respond. Was she... _jesting_ with him? There was no sign of fear, no struggle to find the right courtesy about her. On the contrary, she looked utterly and completely relaxed in her oversized woolen robes, unkempt hair, and slippers. Sandor had half-expected the little bird to have broken wings, to be the shy maid he had deserted so long ago. He’d never expected for her to come to him with smiles and japes.

He had formed a first impression without realizing it, Sandor reflected. However, it had been impossible not to. Now that he knew what she was running from—or part of it at least—after he had returned to her room that night, to see what she had been wearing under all of those cloaks and blankets...

His mind had jumped to the worst possible conclusions when he saw her lying on the bed in a ragged dress, embroidered with little birds and wolves around the collar; far too elegant to be anything other than a wedding dress.

_What happened to you,_ _little bird_ ? By all appearances she seemed fine, but why then had she risked her life fleeing from her marriage? Had they been worse than her first husband?

Sandor wasn’t sure how it got much worse than the Imp. Gregor,perhaps, but Elder Brother had told him his brother had been killed long ago. It had only been with that news that Sandor had begun to find his peace in earnest, truth be told. He hadn’t learned the manner of his death, but in his dreams, it was always by fire.

For the longest time, Sandor sought vengeance against his brother, his life’s mission being to one day slay him himself. When he’d heard of Gregor’s death, he expected himself to feel angry about feeling robbed of the pleasure of cutting him down. It came as a shock, then, when he felt queerly relieved instead.  _Mercy_ , Elder Brother had called it; to see an end to the suffering Gregor inflicted on the world. Most of all, though, to end the suffering on Sandor himself. In the end, it didn’t matter who killed him, or how. It just mattered that he was gone.

It was true that he had balked at every opportunity to kill Gregor; he hadn’t realized it until many discussions with Elder Brother, the same as he’d realized most things. Even at the Hand’s Tourney—the last time he’d squared off with his brother—Sandor had never struck an offensive blow against him. He wanted him dead with all his heart, but he didn’t want to swing the sword himself.  _Mercy_ , the Elder Brother called it.  _Craven_ , the voice in his head hissed.

Sandor still harbored much hatred for himself, and knew he still had much to atone for. His rage, however, had quieted considerably. Elder Brother said it almost made all the difference.

In the end, Sandor settled on tapping his cup on the table as a show of appreciation for her skills at using cutlery. Many of the brothers spoke with their hands on the Quiet Isle, and Sandor had long ago learned the language; Sansa, however, wouldn’t be able to understand it.

She seemed to read his mind. “I think you’re going to have to teach me how to sign, brother Gravedigger,”

Sandor studied her for a long moment. As much as he wanted to spend time near her, he knew it would be unwise. A part of him almost felt it immoral; not only to deceive Elder Brother, but to also deceive Sansa herself. That part of him—the part that didn’t give two shits—was getting a lot harder to push away the longer he was here, but Sandor was skilled at suppressing his guilt. It would take more than two years to break that.

He nodded slowly. Yes, he most certainly would teach her. He showed her the hand signal for ‘yes’ as confirmation. She had all Winter to learn, and who was to say how long Winter would last?

“Yes,” she said aloud, mimicking his hand motion, smiling.

For the remainder of the meal, the little bird chirped different words between bites, and Sandor showed her how to sign them.


	4. Alayne 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alayne gets better acquainted with the Quiet Isle.

True to its name, the Quiet Isle was...quiet. It was so peaceful to Alayne, who never realized before just how quiet the world could be when men ceased their endless chatter. It comforted her greatly, just being here. _Away._

_Free._

Alayne had spent the day becoming acquainted with her new surroundings. The Elder Brother gave her a tour of the commune and grounds, of the modest yet beautiful wooden Sept, introducing her personally to all those who dwelled there as they came across them. So many of them kept their faces covered that Alayne feared she would never remember them all, but she would try. She even used a few of the words she had learned over breakfast to sign to them.

“I’m impressed by how quickly you learn, child." the Elder Brother told her as they walked along a footpath around the grounds. “I take it that you are feeling stronger today?”

“I am, thank you,” Alayne replied. “I can only remember a few words right now; but brother Gravedigger is a good teacher. He’s agreed to teach me more.”

“Very good,” the Elder Brother nodded in approval. “Gravedigger was a fast learner too, you know. Just be careful,” he leaned a little closer, feigning discretion. “once you can understand them, they never stop talking.” He chuckled, and Alayne joined him.

“Why isn’t Gravedigger called ‘brother’, or by his name?” she asked, taking note of the consistent lack of formality. Elder Brother considered that for a moment.

“Those who come here sometimes choose new names, just as they choose a new path in life. When he first came here, he had not chosen a new name, but he did choose to dig. As a result, the other brothers took to calling him Gravedigger; I suppose it stuck. Not the most seemly of names for a servant of the Seven I grant you, but it’s holy work, giving men a proper burial.”

She nodded her agreement to that. Too many had been robbed of that most basic of rights, as was the nature of war.

Alayne learned much about the Elder Brother on their tour. He explained that he used to be a knight himself, from a long line of knights. He had washed up on the Quiet Isle—naked as his name day, which sent them both to laughing—after the Battle of the Trident, taking an arrow in the thigh and foot. He had been presumed dead since. He wouldn’t give his true name, telling Alayne that Elder Brother was the only name he knew now. He had spent the next ten years in silence, as all brothers do when they take their vows.

He explained the value of silence and hard work, how much clearer your mind can be when you’re left alone with it. The men who dwelled here sought atonement for past sins and personal demons. Each had unique and tragic histories, but were not like to reveal them to guests. Alayne felt okay with that; she’d had enough of tragedy for herself, that she wasn’t keen to bear the weight of others’just now.

The Elder Brother decided to turn back once they reached the stables, noting that it was starting to get dark. Alayne would have liked to see the horses, but not so much as she was ready for dinner, so they started on their way back to the common hall.

After a moment of walking in silence, her companion asked in a more serious tone, “Alayne, is there anything you wish to talk about?”

Alayne took his meaning: _what are you running from?_ She didn’t want to talk about it. Not now, anyway. Perhaps not ever. He had surely opened up to her so much in the hopes that she would reciprocate; but if he didn’t have to give his true name, neither did she. _Your true name is Alayne_ , she reminded herself.

She did have one nagging worry, however, one she deemed this a good opportunity to give voice to.

“Forgive me, but I should not like to talk about myself; not yet at least,” she said apologetically. “But if it’s not too much, I would ask a favor of you.”

“What would that be, child?” he encouraged her.

“If anyone comes looking for me..." she trailed off, searching for the right words.

“I have never heard of you, of course.” replied the Elder Brother simply. They were at the door now, and he halted before going inside. He took Alayne’s hands in his own and spoke with the sincerity of a man taking a vow. “You need not worry about the toils of the world here, Alayne Stone. I assure you, you are safe. From whatever it is you’re so afraid of.”

Alayne softened at his words, but they didn’t comfort her. _He doesn’t know Littlefinger._

Upon entering the dining area, with all its benches and tables, Alayne searched the room for Gravedigger—eager to learn more words—but he hadn’t arrived yet. She felt absurdly disappointed by that, so she returned to the place she had sat this morning as one of the Brothers brought her a bowl of crab stew. Brother Brandon, she remembered. It was an easy name for her to put to memory. She thanked him and began to eat.

Brothers filed into the room steadily as dinner began in earnest, and Gravedigger’s towering frame was easy to spot among them. When he saw her, she waved and motioned for him to join her.

Gravedigger sat down to her left, nodding his acknowledgment to her. He had been digging graves all afternoon, she had seen him at it during her tour of the grounds. Cutting into the Earth had appeared to be a great effort, even for a man his size. She would have expected him to have a stench about him as a result, but the scent of lavender informed her he had since bathed.

His eyes were already on her when she turned her face up to meet his, mostly obscured by the cowl he wore, and she gave him the sign for “hello”.

He returned the gesture, his gaze had that amused look to it again. He made another gesture, putting his hand back to his throat as he had this morning, before gesturing to her. Alayne understood. _You can speak._

“Aren’t you hungry?” Alayne asked quietly, noting that he hadn’t been brought a meal yet. Now that she thought on it, he hadn’t eaten this morning either.

She watched as he searched for a way to respond that she would understand. Gravedigger then swept a hand over his shoulder, as though tossing something over it.

“You ate earlier?” she guessed. He nodded. “Then why did you come to dinner?”

In response, he placed his massive hand over her own and gave it a shake. It had only been for an instant, but Alayne tensed and almost jerked away instinctively at the contact. He had only been trying to tell her he intended to teach her some more, she realized, but the touch had taken her by surprise. _I can’t even handle that much,_ she thought bitterly. The man seemed to sense her discomfort, averting his gaze and putting his hands in his lap.

“It’s okay,” she reassured him with a smile. “It’s not you. I’m glad you came, I would like to learn some more words.” She intended to keep herself as distracted as possible, for as long as possible. Learning a valuable skill was a most _welcome_ distraction.

His eyes were searching her, and Alayne looked away hastily. She was glad that most of these men could not speak. She wasn’t ready to confront what was likely searching for her outside of the Quiet Isle, let alone relate it to another; not that anyone would understand to begin with. She must be bold and brave and charming, that’s who Alayne was. She must keep her eyes forward, not on the past.

When she turned back to him, she smiled and changed the subject. “Do you dig graves every day?” she asked. He shook his head before gesturing towards the window, where she could see snow falling outside.

“I suppose not,” she observed, “not with the weather like this. So what else do you do?”

She learned that he contributed in any way he was needed, but mostly with anything that required his strength—which he demonstrated by flexing one of his arms, which made her giggle. She also learned that Gravedigger had been with the commune for two years, and he had injured his leg in battle.

“Like the Elder Brother,” she pointed out. _'Yes,’_ he motioned.

“Also at the Trident?” She jested. She raised her eyebrows in surprise, then, when again he gave her the signal for _‘Yes’._

“Were you a knight too, then?” She asked next, wondering how close the connection ran. He seemed agitated by that, as though she’d said a foul word, giving her a _‘no’_ with both his hand and a shake of the head. Alayne blushed a little guiltily.

When she remarked how tall the other man must have been to defeat him, he again shook his head, holding his palm out roughly 4 feet from the ground. She had giggled at that, the mental image of someone half his size being a match for him in battle striking her as funny. He hadn’t shared in her amusement, but didn’t take offense this time.

Alayne went back and forth like this with him for the remainder of the meal, and by the time it was over, Alayne realized that she had not learned any new words after all her questions. While they were rising to leave the hall, she asked, “Do you think we could try again tomorrow?”

He bowed his head in agreement, and Alayne smiled. “I look forward to it.”

Alayne decided she liked this non-brother with the intense eyes. In spite of herself, she felt she had made a friend.


	5. Sandor 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t be tiresome,” Elder Brother scolded. “You already know what I wish to talk about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the lovely cartimandua73, of the SansaxSandor LJ community; Beta, moon of my life, and expert on horse behavior <3
> 
> Dear reviewers: I've read all your comments, and am overwhelmed by your support for this story. Thank you so much!! I desperately hope that I can continue to earn such glowing reviews~
> 
> Things will begin to pick up starting.....NOW.

A fortnight had passed since the girl came to the Quiet Isle, and Sandor had fallen into the routine of taking his meals early so that he could sit with her in the common hall, to teach her to speak with her hands. Each time he would enter the room, he half-expected her to finally have grown bored of his lessons, and sit with someone else for a change. Yet, each night, she was seated in the same place, beckoning him forth.

And, each night, he slept with one eye open, expecting that to be the night the search party would come. It never did, however. It did nothing to quench his anxiety. The dress had had wolves around the collar. Someone out there knew she wasn’t a bastard as well as he did, and they intended on marrying her. It was at the back of Sandor’s mind at all times, yet he didn’t broach the subject with the girl. The common hall was no place to ask such personal questions. _And she_ _’_ _ll only lie to me anyway._

The girl had thought up more than a fake name; she had told him several tidbits about her past that he knew weren’t true already. She didn’t grow up in Gulltown, nor did she have a father with a scarred face. She never had a pet cat, and he doubted she enjoyed riding horses as much as she said; she hadn’t been to the stables once since she’d arrived. Not that he would let her, but her lack of interest was noted.

If he didn’t know better, he would feel touched that she had opened up to him so much. She once told him she’d never even been to the capital, and it had taken great restraint on his part to not shout at her that she was full of shit.

She was hiding her identity for a reason, and she was hiding something else with it. She had become an impressive liar; so much so that he almost believed her sometimes. It worried him somewhat. Who had taught her this skill so well?

Sandor wanted to know her secrets, not her lies. At the same time, however, he was blissful in his ignorance. It was easier not knowing, truth be told. Not only were her smiles easier to appreciate; all it would take from her was to name the men who haunted her, and all would be lost. He would make it his mission to end them, he knew. _Even if one of those names is mine,_ he thought darkly. He would abandon all he had built for himself here, and would reclaim killing and hatred as his life’s purpose.

The world was shit. It scared him sometimes, to think of how far he’d fall if he were to ever step back into it. Isolation had done wonders for him, even he could see that. He couldn’t imagine stepping back out into that world again. Yet, he hated the idea of Sansa stepping back into it even more.

Most of their interactions had been limited to teaching her the hand language, but it was enough. _More_ than enough. She _smiled_ when she saw him. Sometimes, he could even make her laugh.

_Not you, dog. Gravedigger._

He had decided to teach her individual letters first, so that he could spell words to her if need be. She was far better at reading his hands than gesturing for herself, but she was catching on quickly enough. She had such pretty, graceful hands. He enjoyed watching her figure things out. Even when she made a mistake, Sandor had all the patience in the world for her. He encouraged her to repeat words over and over until she felt comfortable with them.

She wasn’t the only one catching on. Elder Brother was taking his meals in the common hall more frequently than usual, and he watched them constantly. The girl had no idea, of course. He was surprised the man hadn’t brought it up yet, not even during confessions. Sandor had no desire to help him broach the subject, and intentionally left her name out of their discussions.

He surely noticed the girl’s roots growing out as he did, however, and surely took notice of other things, for all his staring. Sandor usually ignored him, feigning ignorance. This morning, however, his irritation got the better of him and he stared back defiantly as the girl ate beside him. _He_ _’_ _s waiting for me to bring it up first,_ he mused. _He can keep waiting, then._ Sandor had maintained the eye contact until Elder Brother got up to leave, an expression on his face that made Sandor apprehensive. It was decisive.

To fill up the rest of her days, the little bird had wasted no time setting herself to work. She washed and patched up many of the brothers’ old garments, but her own wardrobe saw the most improvement. She’d converted her oversized brown robes into dresses that fit her, with wide bell sleeves and a high collar. She’d embroidered them using threads from the now-ruined garments she had been wearing when she arrived, and the dress she wore this morning had golden feathers around the sleeves, which were trimmed with shaggy white fur. Sandor had offered his compliments to these embellishments, signing to her that it suited her, before teaching her the sign for _‘_ _beautiful_ _’_.

She was a talent with a needle and thread; while the brothers weren’t to wear such adorned garments, she still earned their praises by stitching an extra layer of warmth into their clothes for them.

She helped in other ways as well; sweeping the floors, laying gravel on the walkways, preparing meals...wherever there was a job to be done, the little bird would flutter in and offer to help. Except for digging graves, of course. Not that it mattered; there hadn’t been a corpse to bury in over a week now.

Sandor spent much of his time outside of the common hall chopping wood and tending the stables, when he wasn’t obligated to attend the midday prayers. He was at the stables now, where his great warhorse Stranger was kept. He hated this place, Sandor knew; he couldn’t say he blamed the beast. It was too cold, too quiet for such an animal. Every day Sandor would assure him under his breath that they would be leaving soon, but after two years, Stranger was no closer to believing it than Sandor was.

He was throwing a blanket over the stallion’s back when Elder Brother appeared at the stable door, leaning his arms upon it. Sandor looked up at him and bowed his head in acknowledgment. There was a tension in the air, and Sandor knew what was coming. He’d been too bold this morning, had mocked the Elder Brother and confirmed his suspicions. At least he’d gotten a full two weeks, he reminded himself. _Two weeks you didn_ _’_ _t deserve._

Stranger gave his own acknowledgment of the man’s presence; He lurched forward, ears pinned back and teeth bared. Elder Brother was forced to back away, or risk losing his nose. The man chuckled in spite of himself, clutching his heart.

“That was almost lazy; perhaps he’s beginning to take a like to me?” he jested. Sandor grunted. _Get to the point or leave_.

Seeming to understand, Elder Brother sobered and cleared his throat. “I’d like you to come with me, Sandor. We need to talk.”

Sandor gave him a scathing look. This was inevitable, but he wasn’t sure he was ready to hear whatever Elder Brother had to say. He was obedient, however, so he brushed off his hands and followed the man to the cave they called the Hermit’s Hole. It was where Elder Brother slept, but also where he took confessions. It was the only place on the Isle where the men were allowed to speak freely. Elder Brother called for them in turn, about once per week. Sometimes more, if you sought him out yourself. It was the place he’d spilled his guts half a hundred times by now, to be sure. But his confessions mostly concerned the past, and that was easier.

When they arrived, Sandor kicked the snow from his boots before entering and taking his usual seat at the long table inside of the dwelling. He felt slightly apprehensive, but didn’t show it. He knew what this was about, but didn’t know what Elder Brother meant to do about it.

Closing the door behind them, Elder Brother took the seat opposite, his expression serious but not angry. That was a good start.

“I confess that I’ve had nothing to confess,” Sandor said nonchalantly once he was seated, removing the cowl about his face. Elder Brother frowned.

“Don’t be tiresome,” he scolded. “You already know what I wish to talk about.”

_And you already know I don_ _‘_ _t wish to talk about it, but that won_ _’_ _t stop you, will it?_

“You took your time bringing it up. How long have you known?”

“I had my suspicions at the start,” admitted Elder Brother. “but it didn’t take me long to be certain; you typically avoid our visitors like the plague. You should have come to me.”

“Aye,” Sandor agreed. “But I didn’t.”

“Why?” the man’s eyes were fixed on his, scrutinizing him. Sandor shrugged.

“Didn’t come up.”

The Elder Brother sighed. “It isn’t only your well-being that hangs in the balance, surely you know this? She will be _hunted_ , Sandor. There are probably men out looking for her right now, and not just the ones accusing her of regicide.” He knew all of this, of course.

“There’s no safer place for her than here,” he said, as though that would settle the matter.

“I should have been informed,” Elder Brother replied brusquely.

“It looks like you already were.” Sandor pointed out.

“ _Formally_ ,” he snapped impatiently. He considered Sandor for a moment, sobering before adding, “I thought you had more concern for her than this.”

Sandor glared at him. “And what is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Elder Brother explained, as though to a child, “she’s in danger, and you did her no favors by withholding her identity from me.”

Biting back an insult, Sandor replied, “Why do _you_ care so buggering much? No one’s come, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Yet." Elder Brother said darkly. He continued. “Aiding a runaway bastard is one thing. Aiding a highborn traitor is another entirely.”

He seethed at that. “She is no _traitor_ and you know it.”

“ _I_ know it, yes. The world does not.” Elder Brother reminded him. “We have to have a plan of action, Sandor; the risk is too high to ignore. I would have rather you come to me about this, so that we could reach a solution together. Since you neglected to do so, however, I have taken that liberty upon myself, after much consideration.”

“So what do you propose, then? Toss her out to fend for herself, to save our own arses?” he asked, only half-mockingly this time as his stomach clenched. Whatever Elder Brother had decided, Sandor had a feeling he wouldn’t like it.

“Not necessarily. But at the first sign of trouble—or Spring, perhaps—I would find it prudent to send her away from this place, yes.” Elder Brother confirmed slowly. He opened his mouth to speak again, but Sandor was already on his feet.

Placing his palms on the table and leaning forward, he snarled, “You toss _her_ out, you toss _me_ out. Believe that.”

He meant it as a threat, but the other man only leaned back and gave him a knowing look. It was a familiar expression to Sandor, and he hated it. The tension in the room seemed to lift in that moment, however, for Elder Brother had lost his frown.

“Do not think me heartless, Sandor,” Elder Brother also rose, walking to retrieve a cask of wine and a pair of driftwood cups. His tone was casual now. “I do not _wish_ to send the girl away if I don’t have to—she _is_ safest here for the time-being—and the last thing I want is for her to be in danger. If it should come to that, however...I wouldn’t have her ‘fend for herself’, as you say. I have an escort in mind.”

“And who would that be?” he asked rudely.

“There is only one person I would trust with this,” he replied, pouring the wine and sliding one over to him.

Sandor stared at him in disbelief as he put two-and-two together. It was his turn to ask: “ _Why?_ ”

He thought he’d been brought here to be scolded. Punished, even.

Elder Brother considered him a moment. Thoughtfully, he said, “You may not believe in the Gods, Sandor, but I do. I know a sign when I see one.” Sandor scoffed loudly at that, but it went ignored.

“I know how you feel about her. You speak of this girl second-most only to Gregor, to the point that I feel I know her myself. I’ve now had the opportunity to observe the reality of her as well,  and how you interact with her.”

Sandor drained his cup in one go, setting it back on the table with more force than was necessary. “This place isn’t reality,” he retorted, “And you have been observing Alayne Stone, not Sansa Stark.”

Although Sandor relished her smiles and laughs and japes, he was no fool: she had something buried there, something she wouldn’t show. Holy men might detect signs from the Gods, but dogs could sniff out shallow graves just as well.

“Be that as it may, you are only proving my point.” Elder Brother spread his hands. “You know her best. And I know _you_ best.”

Sandor laughed at that, but it was without humor. “And _she_ only knows Gravedigger. This is folly.”

“This is the right thing to do.” Elder Brother corrected him. “Most importantly, I believe you would ensure her safety above any other.”

Snorting, Sandor replied, “There’s a woman who not only swears those vows you’re so fond of, but has sworn a vow to _her._ What makes me more qualified than that?” He felt incredulous.

“Brienne would be a fine escort, it is true.” He conceded. “I could send ravens out on the morrow and send word for her. But who knows where she is? How far away? How long it would take her to receive my summons, and then to travel here?" He was pacing, pondering it all aloud. “Would she make it here alive, if she’s not already dead? In any case, should we need to act fast, how could I depend on Brienne if she is not here?”

Sandor gritted his teeth. It was no wonder it had taken Elder Brother so long to bring it up, for all the thinking he had done on the matter. _Almost as much as me_ , he mused. Even still, he shook his head, but said nothing. He was still trying to wrap his mind around it all. It was simultaneously the last thing he wanted, and the thing he wanted most of all. The things he wanted tended to be the things that were wrong to have, however.

“Besides, I am a frugal man, Sandor.” Elder Brother ceased his pacing. "Why would I help one person when I can help two?” Sandor had to make an effort to rein in his outrage.

“You wouldn’t be _helping_ me,” he spat. “You’d be _enabling_ me. Just as you’re doing now.” He gestured to his now-empty cup. He hadn’t drank a drop of wine since he’d come here, and now he was being invited to drink it freely.

Elder Brother softened a bit as he refilled it. “I’m confident you can imbibe without shaming yourself, just as I’m confident in this," he said serenely.

“And, yes, I’m aware your concern for the girl extends into sinful territory,” he admitted, seating himself once again. Sandor did the same, not taking his eyes off the man across him. “She will be followed by lustful men all her life—you know this, you saw the dress she arrived in as well as I did—best that she has one man about her that will at least put her preferences first, wouldn’t you say?”

He continued before Sandor could make a reply. “It’s a burden you’ll need bear in silence, perhaps for the rest of your days. I feel you’re prepared to shoulder that burden, and I also know you’d never act against the girl’s best interests; otherwise I would never consider this. Anything you do will be in consideration to _her_ , and there are very few people alive today one could say that about.”

Sandor felt a stabbing sensation in the pit of his stomach at the thought that he was just another lustful man chasing after the little bird. Although he felt ashamed of himself for it, he also knew the Elder Brother was right about one thing: he would never let harm come to her, most especially by his own hand. He’d come dangerously close once before, and it had haunted him ever since. He’d rather die a second time than repeat the past.

It still didn’t feel right to have someone else validate him. Especially on this.

Deep down, his feelings for her had always felt like a lie he told himself to justify the dreams he had about her. Yet, for every filthy dream fueled by lust, there were ones that disturbed Sandor even more: dreams of kissing her instead of abandoning her, of cloaking her a third time, of favors and songs and winter roses…dreams too absurd to speak of. The nightmares were easier.

Sandor drank, and then asked baldly, “And what of her? Does she get any say in this, or do you mean to force her into the company of a man who traumatized her?”

“The Hound traumatized her,” Elder Brother replied simply, also drinking, albeit more politely.

“You think she’s going to make that distinction?” he asked sardonically.

Sandor had spoken at length about the night he deserted at the Blackwater in his confessions. He never regretted deserting the King, and he’d do it again if he had the chance. He regretted deserting _her_ , leaving her behind to suffer, and scarring her in the process. Of being too angry at the world to show mercy to the only person to have ever shown him any.

“If you’d like to prove me wrong, by all means, go to her tonight.” Elder Brother challenged. “Tell her who you are. Tell her of my plans. If she doesn’t want it, I would find another solution.”

“I’m not doing that,” Sandor seethed, “I’m not doing _any_ of it.” In truth, he was too craven to face the rejection. To see fear in her eyes rather than smiles. He wouldn’t do that to her. _Or myself._

“I think you underestimate the girl,” Elder Brother said calmly, ignoring his tone as much as his refusal. “I think that if you had done the damage you think you did, she would be weary about keeping company with large men.” Gesturing to Sandor’s person, he added, “Yet she seems to be drawn to the largest of us here. And you to her, I should point out, for all your protests to the idea.”

Not having a good response for that, Sandor changed the subject. “And what of my purpose here? Does that mean nothing now?” He had never taken vows and was therefore free to leave at his whim, but Elder Brother had always urged him to serve his ten years, and Sandor planned to pay that price. On _his_ terms, not the Gods.

Did Elder Brother really mean to send him out early, now, after everything? He couldn’t shake the nagging anxiety at the idea. He wouldn’t admit it to this man openly, but he didn’t feel _ready_. He was apprehensive about inflicting himself on the world just as much as he was terrified to do so to Sansa.

“The men who come here,” he began, “come to _find_ their purpose, not fulfill it. Penitence is only part of that journey. You once thought your purpose was to kill, but that was a false purpose, designed to distract you from the will of the Gods. Your purpose here has been to reflect on the error of your ways. I do not wish to cut your time here short…but, as I said before: I know a sign when I see one. Only the Gods themselves could speak to the timing, but I am not one to question the will of the Gods. Sansa Stark _is_ your purpose; I’d say she always has been, but your attention was divided then. Now...”

Sandor barked out a laugh. “Your Gods don’t love me half so much as you would have me believe they do. What purpose would I have with her?”

“To _protect_ her,” Elder Brother replied solemnly. “Indefinitely, I should think.”

“Wouldn’t that involve that _killing_ you’re so skittish about?” Sandor pointed out.

Elder Brother was observing him, his fingers steepled. “I wouldn’t propose it if I were not sure about it. I know that, now that you’ve seen her, you’d never recover from losing sight of her again; you barely did before. Not even I am capable of such healing.”

He suddenly resented this man; he’d seen him at his lowest, listened to his darkest secrets. And now he was using them against him to make a point. He felt mocked.

“And what of my _atonement_?” Sandor asked, still mocking him, like the hypocrite he was. “Does this mean the Gods forgive my sins, and they mean to _reward_ me for being a good dog?” He said the word with disgust.

Elder Brother‘s response had the sharp edge of impatience to it now. “Do not mistake this for a reward. This is but a next step; an opportunity to make right where you went wrong before, and perhaps even do something _good_ in the world while you’re at it.” His tone turned imploring as he went on. “ _Atonement doesn_ _’_ _t begin and end here, Sandor_ ; it is a lifelong pursuit, and it shall follow you long after you leave this place. All I can do is start you on the path, and pray I’ve prepared you enough to walk it alone. I feel I have; no one punishes your sins more than you do yourself.”

“She deserves better than this.” Sandor rasped stubbornly. “Your confidence in me is touching, but misplaced.”

Considering him for a moment over the rim of his cup, Elder Brother then put it down gently and asked, “Do you know why I brought you here, Sandor? Truly?”

“Because of the ‘will of the Gods’, surely,” Sandor offered, snorting.

“No.” He replied shortly. “I brought you here because you remind me of myself. It is the same reason I am having this conversation with you right now.”

Sandor rolled his eyes. “Spare me the heart to heart, I’m nothing like you.” For one thing, he was a holy man, who had once been a knight. _About as far opposite as you could get,_ Sandor thought. For another, Elder Brother was a far better man than he could ever hope to be.

“All I’m saying,” Elder Brother watched him thoughtfully as he spoke, “Is that I wasn’t always a servant of the Gods. I was in love too, once. If she still lived, if she showed up here on the morrow…” His gaze unfocused for a moment, remembering, before he turned his eyes back on Sandor. “I just might risk my vows, and all seven Hells besides, just to be with her again. To keep her _safe_. I lost my chance, and I must live with that. I would not rob you of yours.”

He’d heard enough. Sandor emptied his cup and stood, his mouth twitching. There was a note of finality in his voice as he declared, “She isn’t going _anywhere_ unless it’s necessary. And I don’t want her to know who I am, unless it’s _necessary_.”

If he was going to go along with this madness, he would do it as Gravedigger. The girl needn’t know him, only be kept safe by him. That would be easier.

Elder Brother nodded, never flinching from his harshness, but he took the hint that this conversation was coming to an end. “I accept those terms. And, _should_ it be necessary, you will do as I ask? Keep her safe, no matter the cost? And be selfless in the pursuit?”

Sandor took his meaning: _Can you promise not to touch her her if I leave you alone with her? Would you be willing to die for her?_

“You going to make me _vow_ on it?” Sandor sneered nastily.

Elder Brother thought on that for a second. “Well—”

“Because I do,” Sandor cut across him, surprising them both. The words had come out before he knew what he was saying.

There was a moment of silence between them as they stared at each other.

“I vow it,” Sandor finished quietly, utterly bemused. Although he didn’t mean to say it, he found he’d never been surer about anything in his life. He didn’t believe in Gods, or signs, or purpose, or even himself; but he believed in _her_. He would do anything to keep the girl alive. Protecting others was the only thing he was ever good at, but no life felt so important as hers. In truth, there was nothing else he had to live for; he merely existed on the Quiet Isle, although that was better than he even deserved. For her, however? He would swallow his pride, his fear, and his insecurities if he had to. He _would_ protect her, or he would die trying.

Nonetheless, Sandor wished Elder Brother would wipe that shit-eating _grin_ off his shit-eating _face_.

 

 


	6. Alayne 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He stood out from the rest—an outcast in a way, in more ways than one. Alayne could identify with that all too well. Only as a bastard, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is quite short; I hope the previous chapter made up for it!

Alayne was spreading gravel out on the walkways when she saw Gravedigger trudging up to the stables to tend the horses, as was part of his duties. She liked being outdoors, despite the cold and snow. The cold didn’t bother Alayne so much, and she liked the scenery.  _When I_ _’_ _m not trapped in it, at least._

She liked the look of icicles on tree branches, the mystery of footprints in the snow, and the feel of crisp air at her cheeks. Now that she had a moment to pause and appreciate her surroundings, rather than fight to survive in them, she found it all to be quite splendid. It was also a comfort that The Quiet Isle was so self-sufficient, and was properly provisioned for the harsh weather. Most comforting of all was knowing she could eat at their table without wondering what they wanted of her in return.

Once she was finished with the gravel, she allowed herself some free time. Deciding she wanted to remain outdoors, she sat down and used the empty pail to gather snow, dumping it out in front of her. It was getting deeper by the day, the white walls on either side of her nearly reaching her waist now. She built lots of things, disassembling and reassembling them in turn. She sculpted a tower with a maid in the window, and then a Weirwood tree. She crafted a crude rendition of The Wall, with a little snow-man on top. She pushed the snow around into the shape of a hare, then a fish, then a dragon. Then she started making a little town, with towers and houses and walkways, with tall walls all around it. After a while, Alayne realized she was building a castle, one like she had made before, long ago. This one, however, wouldn’t be smashed this time. _It_ _’_ _s safe to rebuild here._

Tears suddenly stung at her eyes as unwanted memories flooded her. Alayne blinked them away stubbornly while she quickly dismantled the sculpture, feeling like the stupid child she had once been. All of that was behind her now; it had to be. She would never see that castle again, or the people inside that made it a home. There was no use in remembering, only pain. Sansa was the one who had such fantasies, not Alayne. Alayne was realistic.

She sat there in the snow for awhile to clear her mind, not rising until she felt like a bastard once more.

Alayne was headed back to the women’s cottages to wash up for dinner when she spotted Gravedigger descending from the stable block, easy to distinguish with his height and his limp.

She had avoided taking up chores with him thus far, although she wanted to. Alayne loved horses and loved to ride, but she felt she burdened the man enough already with her lessons. It was rare that she encountered him outside of the common hall. She never got the sense that he felt annoyed by her, but all the same, he seemed a man who valued solitude. She never saw him approach anyone without needing to, and even Alayne had to wave him down before he’d sit with her at mealtimes.

Alayne had taken the time to get to know all the brothers as she worked alongside them during the day, but what she most looked forward to were her lessons with Gravedigger. It wasn’t only because she was gaining something out of it, although it was a benefit. She felt that, on some level, she shared an understanding with this individual. He stood out from the rest—an outcast in a way, in more ways than one. Alayne could identify with that all too well. _Only as a bastard, of course._

It gave her comfort to think that maybe he looked forward to the company as much as she did. Sometimes, when he looked at her, it almost felt as though he was seeing someone else. Whoever it was, the sight appeared to please him. In truth, he reminded Alayne of someone else as well, although she shoved those thoughts away any time they came to her. Gravedigger was much gentler than that man, but it was his intensity that was familiar to her. _To Sansa,_ she scolded herself. She must remember to forget.

She walked briskly to meet Gravedigger, who was so concentrated on something that he didn’t see her until he almost barreled into her, making her gasp.

His eyes were wide and haunted when he looked up, coming to an abrupt halt. _‘_ _Sorry,_ _’_ he signed to her hastily. _'Are you all right?'_

Alayne nodded. He had such huge, rough-looking hands. Each brother had their own unique style when it came to the hand-language, and Gravedigger’s style was very loose, almost casual; as though it was as natural as speaking the common tongue was to her. In that regard, his movements were graceful in their own way, but also not at all. It was mesmerizing.

Alayne hoped she would one day sign so easily, and it was with this in mind that she tried at every opportunity to use the skill she had been gaining over the last fortnight. It was useful to know individual letters, for she could spell out the words she didn’t know. Gravedigger would often show her the short-hand version after she spelled it, and she would repeat it until she became comfortable. She had learned many words this way.

 _'Are you alright?'_ she signed somewhat clumsily, mimicking his movements from before. He softened slightly at her efforts, and gave a reply.

_'No.'_

Alayne frowned. _'Can I help?'_

He seemed amused by that, breathing heavily from his nose rather than laugh, as he always did. He considered her for a moment, thinking it over.

 _'Come with me,'_ he gestured, and began to walk.

Curious, Alayne did as she was bid, having to walk quickly to keep a pace with him even despite his hindered stride. She noticed they were heading for the cloisters where the brothers slept. She had never been there before; she looked up at him inquiringly. A part of her was nervous about going to a man's sleeping quarters, even one with a vow of chastity. She'd never had any pleasant encounters in such a place.

“What are we doing?” she asked, aloud this time, careful to keep the apprehension out of her voice. He looked down at her.

 _'Surprise,'_ he spelled out. Alayne felt her stomach flip over as he showed her the short-hand as well.

When they reached the door, presumably to his room, he halted her. _'Wait here,'_ he signaled. Alayne let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. He dipped through the threshold and disappeared for a brief time before returning again, holding something in one of his overlarge hands.

Alayne tilted her head in curiosity, leaning forward to get a peek. He closed his hand around the object, moving it away from her.

 _'Early,'_ he spelled with his free hand. _'but it helps.'_

Extending his other hand towards her and opening it, he revealed a tiny sparrow carved from driftwood. Alayne felt her eyes burn with a sudden rush of emotion; she had revealed to him the week before that her sixteenth name-day was coming up soon, but she hadn't said when. It was two days from now.

She looked up at him, beaming, her eyes shining. He was watching her carefully, and seemed pleased by the reaction. “Thank you,” she breathed, taking the gift in her own hands, examining the details. “It's beautiful.”

Alayne went forward to hug him, but he stopped her. _'Dinner soon,'_ he reminded her. _'Hope you like it.'_

 _'I love it,'_ she signed to him, unable to speak without her voice breaking. His eyes seemed to see someone else again as they smiled down at her.

Then he bowed his head, bade her goodbye, and ducked back into his room.

Alayne looked down at the gift in her hands. So small, but the gesture had been huge to her. He had probably chosen the bird based on her surname 'Stone', knowing she must have come from the Vale. It wasn't a falcon, but it was close enough.

She was reminded of something else as well, something that had nothing to do with the bastard daughter of Petyr Baelish, or the sigil of Arryn. Another girl, another life, a different father...a different name.

_Little Bird._


	7. Sandor 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gravedigger could do something Sandor Clegane could not: make her _smile_.

The little bird had warmed up to him considerably since he'd given her the gift for her name-day. It wasn't in tangible ways, but there was a marked difference in her demeanor. She jested more often, laughed more easily, spoke more freely. Still all lies, but there was an underlying truth to them: she considered him a friend.

He had fought with himself over whether to give it to her at all, in truth. He knew it would be too familiar of a gift, that it would be inappropriate for a silent brother to give a strange bastard girl any gift at all, especially for Gravedigger himself. Since coming to the Quiet Isle, Sandor had taken to wood carving in his spare time, at the suggestion of Elder Brother. It had been an outlet to vent his frustrations upon, and had taught him patience as much as it had taught him technique. When she told Sandor her name-day was approaching, he knew it to be a truth; the first truth she had given him since coming here. She had likely absorbed it as part of her new identity—but all the same—Sandor had clung to that truth, and sought to acknowledge it.

Sandor had been at war with himself from the moment he left Elder Brother’s quarters, having a life’s purpose unceremoniously dropped in his lap, unasked for. _And unearned._ But then he'd run into the girl, seen the frown at her face, and made his decision then. Sandor could protect her, and he would, whenever the time came. But Gravedigger could do something Sandor Clegane could not: make her _smile_.

She would never have to know that her reaction to the gift meant just as much to him as it did to her to receive it.

Despite the brief satisfaction that had brought him, Sandor was still at unease about Elder Brother's plans for them. It felt foolish; if there _was_ to be a scenario where they had to make a quick escape in the middle of Winter, they would be laughably unprepared. He had no coin, no armor, no sword, and nowhere to go that seemed good enough, or realistic besides. He didn’t even know where the war was currently being fought, or who was winning. Elder Brother didn’t bother his subjects with the toils of the outside world, but in this moment Sandor found it to be a fucking hindrance.

He thought about bringing these issues up to the man, but Sandor had been intentionally avoiding him since their meeting, too stubborn to ask for help. That would make him seem eager, or as though he was taking this whole thing seriously.

Sandor decided that he didn’t have to be completely unprepared, however, not if he started now. He would pack bags with food, clothing, and supplies for the both of them, and keep it in the empty stall next to Stranger. He would add to it as he needed to, and it would be waiting in case something unexpected happened and they needed to make a quick escape. He would have to practice saddling the horse up quickly as well, and get him used to wearing snowshoes. _He won’t like that,_ Sandor mused.

The sun was shining through the snow today, so Sandor had taken a mule down to the shore. Many things washed up on the Quiet Isle where the river met the bay, trapped in the current. Sandor had buried many corpses that had washed up this way, but other things could be found as well. Most commonly driftwood, but other treasures weren’t rare either. The men here had no need of trinkets, of course, but they found uses for them all the same. Once, Sandor had found a greatsword, and had been loath to hand it over. Elder Brother had melted it down and re-forged it into pots and pans. Food had lost its savor for a long while after that.

He hoped he would find another sword like it today. He was searching for items he could make use of or sell on the road. Sandor would be sure to pack them away before Elder Brother could lay them to waste this time.

The snows weren’t as deep by the shore, gradually sloping up the bank until it reached solid land, where it was its highest. The mule was able to walk here without the aid of snowshoes, for which he was grateful. He tied the beast to a post that had been erected for such excursions, and began to walk along the shore, shoveling snow out of the way as he went.

It was far colder and windier by the water, and Sandor could hear the wind howling in his ears as he walked. He spent hours combing the banks, but came up with very little. Some goblets, a dead cat, a rotted boot. The only thing of value he could find was a silver flute with emeralds inlaid along the bottom.

He cursed the Winter for such a meager haul as he made his way back to the stable block to return the mule, his mind traveling back to the newfound purpose he had; if it had ever left him to begin with.

Sandor would feel overjoyed by the prospect, if it didn’t trouble him so much in turn. In addition to being unprepared, he felt utterly unworthy—as he always did where Sansa Stark was concerned. He didn’t believe in Gods, so he had no right to their gifts. He had taken no vows, so he had no right to Elder Brother’s gifts either.

Except he _had_ taken a vow. Had he really changed that much? _Stooped so low?_ Or had he always been willing to swear himself to this girl, and only this girl, given the opportunity?

_You took the opportunity, nobody gave it._ That was the difference: he needn’t be asked. Not anymore.

Still, the matter was more complicated than that. It frustrated him. Despite Elder Brother's insistence, Sandor very much doubted the Stark girl would be pleased to know the man beneath the cowl; _he_ wasn't even pleased by it for himself. In any case, what would become of him if set loose to roam the world again, a dog without a leash? He didn't trust himself, and the Elder Brother's trust would mean shit if he wasn't there to rein him in. What if he had made a vow he couldn't keep?

Sandor had been operating under the illusion that he was a better man on the Quiet Isle, but he'd never given thought to what sort of man he might become—or worse, revert back into—once he put his back to this place. _Not so soon._ And yet, he couldn't deny that a part of him _was_ ready to leave; he just couldn't be sure which part of him that was, or if it could be trusted.

It was as though all of his worst fears were coming out to test him all at once, manifested as his wildest fantasies. _The only thing missing is fire, disguised as a river of wine._

Sandor had been a man at peace, existing in a routine that had effectively removed all hard decisions from his life, and all the lies and pain and disgusted stares that came with them. He wasn't _happy_ here, but he never expected he would be, or deserved to be. Contentment was the best a lame dog could have hoped for, and that was what he had achieved.

The Stark girl had changed everything. In truth, she had changed _him_ , long before he met Elder Brother. He had pondered on that many times. In all his efforts to rip the wool from her eyes, to tear out the innocence that had been his own undoing, she had instead—unbeknownst to them both—instilled in him a powerful sense of self-awareness. With it came guilt, shame, and a whole host of desires he hadn't felt or had want of since boyhood. _When I was unburnt._ She had punctured a hole in his world, effectively turning it upside-down, completely oblivious all the while. He'd hated her for that, at first. She had turned his hate into something else, however; had planted a seed that he'd tried to drown out in his cups, that Elder Brother revived just when he had given up at last.

Despite the powerful impact she had on him, Sandor never expected he would see her again. He carried her memory, lost sleep wondering what had become of her, rewrote the past and fabricated a future in his dreams...but he'd never let such things give way to actual _hope_ that their paths might cross again. He certainly never expected he might be thrown onto the path with her.

Now that he was, Sandor wasn't sure how to proceed. As much as he had changed, he was still very much the same. It was difficult to sort out, and impossible to understand. He suddenly resented this place; he didn't want to think on it, but all there was to do here was fucking _think_.

He returned the mule into its stall and left the stable block in a huff, not giving much attention to his surroundings. If he had, he might have noticed footprints in the snow that were far too small to be his own.

 


	8. Alayne 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was only but a shred, a smoldering ember, but something had begun to awaken in her that she hadn’t realized was so lost before: _hope._

Alayne screamed as she was struck in the face. She was running around the large windmill to escape her attacker as she was struck again—in the back this time—and her screams gave way to fits of laughter.

She had been helping brother Brandon clear snow off the walkways and grounds when she mentioned how long it had been since she'd had a snowball fight. Moments later she heard his shovel fall to the ground, but it had been too late by the time she turned around. She took cover behind the windmill and drove her hands into the snow, packing it loosely between her palms as she stepped out and took aim. He was gathering more snow as well, and she launched it at him, giggling when it came into contact with the top of his head. He jerked up abruptly and flung another, but she ducked this time, springing back up to return the volley.

This went on until she was breathless and pink-cheeked, calling out a truce. Brother Brandon bowed low as a show of agreement, and she stepped out from behind the windmill.

 _'I think we're done for today,'_ he signed to her, gesturing at the work they accomplished before the assault had begun. Eyes glittering with mischief, he added, _'watch your back tomorrow'_

Alayne laughed and returned, _'I'll wear some armor'_

Next to Gravedigger, Alayne had bonded most with brother Brandon, who worked mostly in the kitchens. After spending time with him, she learned he was of the North, age eight-and-twenty, and could play the harp. He didn’t wear Novice’s robes, as Gravedigger did. He had arrived here after fighting in the war; Elder Brother had healed him, and in return, he devoted his life to the Seven. He had fought for the Starks, which likened her to him most of all. He said no more on the subject, however, as most brothers wouldn’t. Atonement, brother Brandon had explained by signing, was a path you had to walk alone.

She would help him prepare meals sometimes, and took joy in learning this new skill in addition to the hand-language. Alayne had never prepared meals for herself before, and she found she enjoyed it. It even tasted better, knowing the true effort that went into its making. Alayne once told him in passing that her favorite dessert was lemon cakes, and the next day, he had surprised her with a whole handful of lemons, and proceeded to show her how to make them. There had only been enough for a small batch, but they enjoyed them together while she told him stories that she had been told once, in a past life. The nice ones, not the scary ones.

He was retreating inside to begin preparations for dinner now, but Alayne wanted to remain outdoors. She looked around, searching for tasks she could put herself to as she shook snow from her hair. When her eyes fell upon the stables, she wrapped her cloak tightly around herself and set out towards them. She hadn’t been to see the stables yet, and mayhaps Gravedigger could use some help tending the horses. In any case, she was in high spirits this afternoon, and the prospect of good company appealed to her.

For as much time as she spent around him, Alayne hadn't learned much about Gravedigger. Whenever she asked him personal questions, he either changed the subject or responded vaguely. Sometimes, he would just stare at her until she chose a new subject, such as the time she'd asked him what he prayed for. She had no details that a friend would have, nor did she have any of the playfulness she shared with brother Brandon; the most she got from Gravedigger was the occasional jape.

In spite of that, however, she couldn't deny that she felt an inexplicable closeness to him, as though she had always known him. It was an unspoken sort of bond; a different kind of friendship than she had with Myranda Royce, or brother Brandon. More than anything, she felt comfortable around him. Safe, in a way. She went to sleep each night with fear clutching her heart, anxious that tomorrow she would be discovered hiding here at last, and her time of peace would surely end as soon as it began. Each morning when she saw Gravedigger walk into the common hall, however, she felt at ease once more. She hoped that if enemies did come ashore, it would be during mealtimes, for all she would need do is hide behind him. _Or Elder Brother._ She felt safe around him too, even if he asked too many questions.

The dreams Gravedigger inspired in her were another matter, something she didn't enjoy and was careful to disregard each morning as she braided her hair. She worked hard to rid herself of the bad habit of comparing everyone she met to everyone she knew. _There_ _are_ _no connections, only coincidences._ Gravedigger was her friend— _Alayne's friend—_ even if it was only temporary. _All friends are temporary._

When she reached the stables, however, Gravedigger was nowhere to be found. There were only a few stalls with mules inside, and many more stood empty. Disappointed, she walked down the row anyway, patting noses as she went. She breathed deep, taking in the smell of hay and the stench of horses. When she reached the empty stalls, she looked inside each to see if maybe he was stooped down in one of them, cleaning. Maybe she would catch him unawares and spook him, to see if he would take humor in it. Each stood just as empty as the one before, however.

She was nearing the stall in the back when, suddenly, she heard a deep, rough, challenging cry that nearly made her leap out of her skin. She shrieked in unison, although it carried none of the laughter from before. Suddenly, in front of her were dark eyes—angrily rimmed in white—and a snarling mouth filled with long yellow teeth, striking out at her face. Alayne only barely jerked herself backwards in time, stumbling to the floor.

Her heart raced in time with her breathing as she looked up at the jet black destrier that she hadn’t noticed standing there before in the shadows, its ears pinned back flat against its head. She was sprawled there for a moment, stunned, as the horse tossed its head and settled down, pawing the ground in frustration.

Alayne’s head was spinning as she stood up—slowly, so as to not spook the horse again. This beast was completely out of place among the other equines kept here; this was an animal bred for war. She stared at it for a long moment, and it stared back in suspicion. Suddenly, a realization hit her like a slap in the face.

 _I recognize this horse,_ Alayne's eyes grew wide as she inched forward. _I have ridden beside this horse. I knew his owner._

All the pieces were putting themselves into place as Alayne stretched out a shaking hand toward the stallion. It eyed her warily. “Stranger?” she whispered, so quietly she barely made a sound. _It can’t be Stranger. That would be impossible._

As her hand made contact with his velvety muzzle, tears fell unbidden from her eyes, the world seeming to shatter around her. The horse shook his head slightly and snorted, but didn’t make a move to bite again.

What did this _mean_?

Alayne took a step back. She had to get out of here, she realized, her heart racing once more. If he came back, now...

She wasn’t sure she could face the truth; not yet. _Not here._ She was utterly overwhelmed by the discovery, and was in no state to have such a confrontation. Seeming to sense her panic, Stranger struck out with his big front hoof against the stable wall, creating a hollow thunder so loud that she did not hear his deep throated nicker when she turned and ran.

She sprinted from the stable block, nearly slipping on the ice out front, but she didn’t stop until she reached her chambers in the women’s cottages. It was only once the door was shut behind her that she felt she could finally breathe. Alayne frantically tried to collect her thoughts, but it was hard to keep them reined in and organized. It was like trying to chase cats, as her sister had once done. _Not your sister,_ the voice in her head snapped like a whip.

The weight of the revelation was crashing down all around her, her mind flashing back over the last fortnight, going over every interaction...

The reasonable part of her tried to convince herself that black horses were common enough, and that it was just a coincidence, like anything else. The part of Alayne that wasn’t Alayne, however, refused to entertain the notion. _I know what I saw_ , it insisted. It couldn’t be a coincidence that a man that size, and a horse that wild, were in the same place without being connected. Her eyes fell upon her dressing table, where the driftwood sparrow was perched. _That_ _can't_ _be a coincidence, either._ She had the sudden urge to smash it, and all her new knowledge with it. This wasn't knowledge for Alayne to have, she never should have known in the first place. She had failed to forget, and now she was drowning in her memories, struggling to come to terms with it all.

She wondered how she had recognized his horse without recognizing the man himself, he who had been sitting at her side during every meal since she’d arrived. _The left side, not the right,_ the voice that wasn’t Alayne’s pointed out. She’d looked into his eyes many times, but the only thing they had in common were the color.

Alayne slumped down on her pallet bed, running shaking hands through her hair. It now seemed so obvious. But she had thought him dead, and she had been smothering those thoughts every time they came to her unbidden. She refused to let herself dwell on them, for they belonged in the past. _In Sansa's past._ And now they were sitting right here in the present, not dead after all, her _friend_. She had thought herself acting the child again, but realized now she had the correct first impression all along.

 _He must have recognized me,_ she thought. _I look different, but not so much so._

Through the hysteria—despite the confusion—one thing was certain: she was no longer alone in the world. There was only but a shred, a smoldering ember, but something had begun to awaken in her that she hadn’t realized was so lost before: _hope_.

The longer she sat there, the more and more she could feel herself losing grasp on Alayne Stone. This was not Alayne's revelation, were not her memories that had brought it about. Alayne was not the one who felt safe in the presence of Gravedigger, and was certainly not the one he looked at with such intensity.

After a time, she stood. It was almost time for dinner by now, and Sansa Stark mustn’t miss her lessons tonight.

As she swept down the walkway to the common hall, her mind continued to whir, already trying to convince herself that this changed nothing and to forget it. At the same time, however, it seemed to change _everything_.

She had prayed for this, among many things; for Sandor Clegane to find peace, to not be the reaver of Saltpans, to be _alive_ . Despite the staggering disorientation of it all, it seemed her prayers had revealed themselves to be answered just as she had begun to question her faith. Was it a sign? In truth, Sansa hadn’t visited the sept once since she arrived, aside from the brief time she spent there during her tour. She hadn’t avoided it on purpose, but she had also not made it a priority. She wanted to skip dinner and go there now, and beg the Mother for forgiveness. She wished this place had a Weirwood tree as well. Sansa wanted to thank _all_ the gods.

This wasn’t the only thing her epiphany changed. Sansa felt safe here, it was true, but all the while she still had reality nagging at her: _this wouldn’t last forever._ Either Littlefinger would find her here himself, or he’d find her the moment she left this place. She couldn’t take up permanent residence here, and if she were honest to herself, she didn’t want to. In spite of all its comforts, this was no place for her to live. But, it seemed, there _were_ no other places for her to live. There were only places to die.

That much had not changed, but if she weren’t alone, with the Hound of all people...Sansa felt her odds at survival would at least improve.

Alayne was in the back of her head, laughing at her. She was dismissing an important element: He was already promised to the Quiet Isle, and the Gods besides. The men here took vows that didn’t break for ten years. _And you won’t have ten years._

This thought quieted her somewhat, putting her at a sort of impasse. Should she allow herself to think more on this, or put it out of mind before she let hope flow too freely? Could she be so selfish as to ask a man to break his holy vows and compromise his values, just for the sake of her? _The Hound always protected me,_ she thought. _But it wouldn’t be right to expect him to._

She felt a bit defeated to admit it to herself, but it would be too selfish. There was nothing she could offer the Hound in return, and she would ask him to sacrifice all.

The Gods had answered her prayers, but the Gods were sometimes cruel as well. _I know that better than anyone._ They would show her proof that Sandor Clegane had been bestowed with the Mother's mercy, had found peace at last, but would not let her keep him.

He was already seated there when Sansa entered the common hall, his eyes on the table, thoughtful. She always made it to dinner before he did, and realized she had spent more time in her room than she thought.

She decided to sit at his left side tonight instead of his right, hoping to get a better glimpse and have the confirmation that he was who she thought he was. This clearly made him uncomfortable, judging by the way he stiffened; but Sansa already knew why.

 _He knows it’s me._ She knew it for a certainty then. _And he doesn’t want me to know it’s him. It’s why he doesn’t eat, or ever look me full in the face._ _He's hiding it._

He glanced at her quickly before turning his eyes back to the table—obscuring the burned one—and signing a greeting.

This gave Sansa pause; if he couldn’t break his vows and he didn’t want her to know who he was, should she really act against his wishes by making him aware of her revelation? He recognized her all along as Alayne, yet had never mentioned it. She wondered for a moment if he hated her, but quickly put it out of mind. _He wouldn’t be sitting here if he did._ He certainly wouldn’t look at her the way he usually did. She now knew that, when he seemed to see someone else behind her eyes, he had been seeing _her_.

Regardless, she felt the hope in her chest shrivel a little as she rose from the bench, feigning chagrin.

“Oh! I was wondering what felt so strange,” she said airily, walking around him to sit on his right side, cloaking herself in Alayne once more. “It’s been a long day!”

Not giving the moment any more attention, Gravedigger went over individual letters with her again before her meal came, and spelled out new words while she ate, as she didn’t offer up any herself. Alayne repeated them with her own hands, but Sansa was too distracting to put them to memory.

She couldn’t stop _staring_ at him. How could she not? The new knowledge she had gained was still too fresh; so huge, it left no room for anything else. Learning hand signals suddenly seemed silly. She had learned something so much more significant. She felt absurdly frustrated by it all. What was the point in the charade, if he couldn't leave anyway? Perhaps he thought she would be afraid; in any other context, maybe she would be. He was certainly capable of the horrors at Saltpans, and if she discovered that he’d been responsible after all, she most certainly would feel frightened. They had parted on frightening terms as well, there was no denying it. She had perspective, however; she realized long ago the ways he had gone out of his way for her. He had helped her even though it never benefitted him to, and no one ever asked him to besides; she couldn’t think of many people who could say the same. She had enough experience to know there were far worse people in this world far more worthy of her fear.

She clearly remembered the dagger at her throat, to be sure, but she remembered the wetness on his cheeks more vividly. _And the kiss at_ _my_ _lips._ In any case, she could observe nothing fearsome about him now. If she could change as much as she had, why couldn’t he? She was no child, not anymore; perhaps he was not such a brute.

Dinner was nearly finished, and she had been staring at his eyes so intently that she didn’t realize she was doing it until he waved a hand between them to catch her attention. He’d been trying to show her a new word. She willed herself to snap out of it, but her curiosity was too great. _How did I not recognize him before?_ She kept asking herself, over and over again, trying to put her finger on it. In dreams, his eyes were the most prominent feature she saw; she always supposed that, if nothing else, she could never forget that terrible look he had.

 _That_ _'s it_ . That’s what was missing. His eyes had always been so full of _rage_ ...she had never seen anything else there. Even when he was frustrated—as he now was, it seemed—it wasn’t _terrible_ to behold.

It made all the difference.

As the brothers began to file out of the hall, the Hound also began to rise. Something possessed Sansa to put a hand on his arm to stop him.

“Are you going to sleep?” She asked. He appeared nonplussed as he shook his head ‘no’.

“Where are you going?” He hesitated, then signed a word he had taught her recently: _'Sept_ _'_

She couldn’t do it, she realized. She couldn’t play at Alayne when Sansa’s past was standing right in front of her. She couldn't concentrate on anything else. _I won’t ask him to break his vows, but I can’t pretend I don’t know him,_ she reasoned. There would be no harm in that. She couldn't pretend to be a friend to Gravedigger, when it was the Hound she wanted to know. She wasn’t sure how he had been able to keep it to himself—not being allowed to speak surely helped—but she didn’t have his discipline.

She didn’t know how to approach it yet, but she didn’t know how _not_ to.

“Might I join you?”

 

 


	9. Sandor 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I have to be dreaming,_ he thought wildly. _Or perhaps having a nightmare._ He begged himself to wake up soon, before he found out which.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be out of town this weekend, so I'm putting chapters up early! Thanks again for all your lovely reviews, and to my sweet, sweet beta (cartimandua73) who has just been so great. 
> 
> Also, if you enjoy this story I encourage you to follow 'sandy-salsa' on Tumblr, where I will be posting chapter updates, and occasionally expanding on my thoughts/ideas surrounding what's going on here! I also welcome people to interact and ask me things! I think I will be turning it into a general SanSan blog once I'm finished here. :3

The little bird’s behavior was strange tonight. Or was he just projecting?

Her eyes had been glued on his from the moment she’d sat down. _And she was late._ She completely ignored him at times, for all her blatant staring. The irony wasn’t lost on him. What had come over her?

Or was it _he_ who was different now? He certainly felt different, in a way. After all, planning a future at her side was no longer just a distant fantasy. He had been trapped inside his own head for the past few days, trying to figure it all out; maybe he was wearing a queer expression that he wasn’t aware of.

Sandor was taken unawares when, at the end of the meal, Sansa asked to accompany him. In truth, he had lied when he told her he meant to go to the Sept; his real plan had been to begin packing bags to keep in the stalls. He wouldn’t deny her request, though, and already felt guilt for the lie. Tonight, his plans would have to wait.

He led her outside to the septry, holding a torch on high. It was especially frigid at night time, the wind howling angrily as it tore at their faces. He walked in front of her to block some of it out, but it came from all sides.

When they got inside, Sansa took a moment to admire the wooden likenesses of the seven faces of God, each standing on its own plinth with a small cushioned bench in front at which to kneel in prayer. Once the door closed behind them, it was as if the world was suddenly void of all noise, but for the sound of their footsteps. Sandor lit a candle for each of them, holding one out for her. She held it to her chest as she considered the statues in silence, deliberating over which to go to. Sandor watched her, waiting. Finally, she approached the Crone, bending down and setting her candle before it. She lifted her face to look at it, her expression reverent and pleading.

Sandor’s first instinct would be to go to the Stranger, as he did each afternoon during the commune’s daily prayer, much to Elder Brother’s displeasure. He had noticed Sansa absent from all of them thus far; she wasn’t required to attend them as he was, of course, but he’d always taken her for deeply religious. It occurred to him that this might be the first time she’d prayed since she got here, at least officially.

 _I'm not bloody crazy, something'_ _s strange about her tonight._

Sandor ultimately decided on the Smith, for its proximity to the Crone directly to its right. It seemed like a choice someone his size would make besides, for men prayed to it for strength. _Praying rather than doing, more like._ Sandor had no desire to ask Gods for favors. Gravedigger did, however, so he would make a show of it.

He knelt before the statue, lacing his fingers together and bowing his head. The moment he did, he felt the girl’s eyes on him again. He kept his closed, ignoring her. He could tell she wanted to say something to him; he could practically _hear_ her mind working. Courteous as ever, she was waiting for him to finish praying— _to nothing, for nothing_ —before she spoke.

Having had enough of the staring, Sandor lifted his head and looked over at her, exasperated. _Spit it out already._ Moonlight and candlelight fought for dominance in her hair, and the sight softened him somewhat. She seemed to lose her nerve, however, for she said nothing.

Sandor pointed up to the Crone. _'Guidance?'_ he signed, his look inquiring.

She gazed around the room, at the other faces of God. “Who else would you have me pray to?”

Sandor wasn’t prepared for that question; without giving it much thought, he suggested the Maiden. It seemed to annoy her. “The Maiden is stupid,” she said flatly. Sandor didn’t disagree, although her response confirmed something he already knew: she was no maiden.

In truth, Sandor associated Sansa more closely with the Mother, with her compassion and her mercy, even for a rabid Hound. Sandor hated the Mother for giving _him_ her mercy over the girl, but he suggested it next anyway.

She looked him in the eyes. “There’s no one left to beg mercy for; and I can’t bear to think on the dead at this hour.”

Sandor bowed his head back down, unable to think of a dignified response to that. She had something to say, but she was taking her time saying it. _And making me feel like shit in the process,_ he thought sourly. She thought him a holy man; did she mean to have confession with him? It felt wrong.

She was silent for a time, and he closed his eyes, wondering how long he would have to sit here before she would say her piece. Maybe she didn’t want to say anything at all, and only wished to pray. _So why then is she staring at me?_

At long last, a whisper broke through the unending silence, barely audible. “You remind me of someone I used to pray for.”

Sandor’s eyes flew open. He kept his head down, however, feeling suddenly vulnerable under her unrelenting gaze.

“I would ask the Mother to gentle him, to grant him peace...” she went on, her voice as light as feathers. “Rumors would have me believe my prayers were in vain, but I don’t believe in rumors. I believed in him, and the Gods; I believed they granted him death. The cruelest path to serenity, to be sure, but I accepted that perhaps it was the only way.”

Sandor was aware of the rumors, for Elder Brother had helped sow them. _So I wouldn_ _’_ _t be able to leave,_ he thought bitterly. He couldn’t tell whether his heart swelled or broke to hear her say she believed in him, believing him dead over raiding Saltpans. The sensation of ice falling in his stomach, however, was unmistakable: dread.

S _he knows. She knows I_ _’_ _m me._ A part of him had known this from the moment she sat down at dinner tonight. _On the wrong side._

Sandor lifted his head, but couldn’t face her. He stared up at the Smith before him instead.

“I think I remind you of someone, too.” Sandor felt his stomach drop again. Slowly, she rose from the floor, and the only sounds in the world were her soft footfalls as she closed the distance between them to stand at his side.

She continued, laying a hand gingerly on his shoulder. It felt like a sack of bricks to Sandor. “He was fearsome, and cruel, and so angry. But he protected me, in all the ways he could. Told me secrets, and trusted me with them. Was honest with me, even when the truth was hard. He had more honor than _all_ the knights. He was the first man to—to kiss me...” She trailed off, her voice catching in her throat. Sandor snapped his head around to look at her, certain he must have misheard her. She bit her lip.

“All I ask is to look on his face again; to see him and know for certain that at least this one prayer was answered. To know for myself that he is at peace.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, for he could not bring himself to grant her wish. His arms were lead. Finally, the girl reached forward with trembling fingers, and slowly—to give him a chance to deny her, but he made no such move—slid the wool from his face. He took a deep, rasping breath and closed his burning eyes, unable to look upon the disgust that was sure to follow. He flinched when her fingers brushed his cheeks, and felt cool air at his neck as she lowered his hood. He suddenly felt a rush of agoraphobia by the exposure. He always kept his long black hair tied at the nape, but he regretted it now, for she would have a full view of his face.

 _I have to be dreaming,_ he thought wildly. _Or perhaps having a nightmare._ He begged himself to wake up soon, before he found out which.

Every fiber of Sandor’s being wanted to flee, but he was frozen in place as soft hands cupped either side of his face. “Look at me,” she whispered.

He couldn’t look at her; how _could_ he look at her? He didn’t want this, and yet here he sat, not doing a Gods-damned thing to stop it. _And crying, like you_ _’_ _re having some sort of religious experience,_ his mind mocked him scathingly.

She was delusional about him; it was a special kind of trauma he hadn’t imagined possible, but delusional all the same. Had she faced such great atrocities that she had begun to romanticize _him_ , of all people? Saying he kissed her, when all he’d done was scare her and desert her? Everything else felt like a warped version of the truth as well. Her version of events were a fantasy—a fantasy he shared, no doubt, yet he knew it for the untruth that it was.

“Please,” she supplicated.

Reluctantly, he did as she bid; as his eyes slid open, he saw tears were rolling down her cheeks too. “I’m just trying to say...I’m glad you’re alive. And I’m glad you’re here.”

Sandor was at a complete loss. Some instinct made him lift his hands to sign two words he had taught her individually: _‘_ _Little Bird_ _’_

 _I'm glad you're_ _alive, too._

She let out a small sob and smiled, wrapping her arms around him and drawing herself forward to hug him, burying her face into the crook of his neck. It took him a long moment to return the embrace, as it dawned on him that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been _hugged_. It was unfamiliar and felt entirely too intimate, and yet he felt his misgivings slipping away like water through his fingers.

He buried his face in her hair, and as he held her—until their tears had run dry, until she drifted off to sleep in his arms—Sandor wondered if he was delusional too.


	10. Sansa 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to ponder without abandon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna go ahead and slap a "Trigger Warning" on this one (mild non-con). This chapter has been highly anticipated in your reviews, so I sincerely hope it has been worth the wait. :) Longest one yet, I think!

 

Sansa awoke the next morning in her pallet bed, temporarily disoriented. She had half-expected to wake up still clinging to the Hound, and as she looked around the empty room, she almost convinced herself that she dreamt the whole thing. She had looked on his face, reached out and touched it...

She didn’t know what had been so frightening about it before. They were just scars; all warriors bore scars. She herself had scars, only ones that you couldn’t see. She wondered how different life would be if she had to wear them on the outside too, as he did.

The Hound had two faces, but it wasn’t the same as the two faces Littlefinger wore. The Hound had been forced to bear them, for all the world to see. _Against his will._ Littlefinger, on the other hand, had carefully crafted his, and hid it so well that you couldn’t tell the difference.

 _All the world will see his ugliness soon enough,_ she thought darkly. She had seen to that.

It felt as though a burden had been lifted that she didn’t know she bore. She always wished she could say those things to him, and now, she had gotten her chance. By some wonderful order of events, she had found him, _alive_ . Sansa wanted to bow before the gods, the old and the new—even the Stranger—and thank them for the opportunity; for restoring hope and faith when all had seemed so bleak. It wasn’t her family returned to her as she prayed, or Winterfell, or even an end to the war...but it was _something_. Something more powerful than she would have thought previously, and she wouldn’t take it for granted.

She thought back to how his arms had felt around her, and how comforted and safe she’d felt there, in ways she never expected she might feel in a man’s arms—or anyone’s arms ever again, for that matter. She had felt such a closeness with her friend Myranda Royce, it was true, but Myranda only knew Alayne Stone. Sansa knew she would never see her best friend again besides, just as she’d never seen Jeyne Poole again.

Sandor Clegane might be the only man alive who knew her for who she was, and would hug her for it rather than harm her or use her. Someone she _trusted_. Without all his anger, perhaps someone she could even come to see as a friend. Alayne had called Gravedigger her friend, after all. Had that just been a disguise, as Alayne had been? Or was that who the Hound was now? It had yet to be seen for a certainty, but she very much hoped so.

In turn, Sansa also hoped he wasn’t _entirely_ like Gravedigger. The Hound had a ferocity to him that she appreciated, and now that her ears were less innocent, she even appreciated his crudeness, for at least it was honest. She hoped he had retained some of those qualities, just as she hoped to retain some of Alayne’s. It wasn’t _all_ bad, she decided. Alayne made her less timid and naive; Gravedigger might make the Hound less hateful and bitter. At her core, she was still Sansa Stark, and always would be. She could see that now. Maybe he could still be Sandor Clegane.

 _When I touched him, he wept._ Just as he did the last time she’d done that. The circumstances were vastly different this time, but the result was the same. _He_ _’_ _s the same. But also so different._

Pulling on her boots and a fur cloak, Sansa trudged through the snow to break her fast. It had begun to snow in earnest, it seemed, and showed no signs of stopping. The wind howled all around her. The walkways were covered in snow up to her mid-calf, rendering all of yesterday’s work useless. The untouched snow at her sides came up to her neck now, and she shuddered to think of traveling in it. She had fled the Vale at the right time.

She heard the cutting and scraping of snow being shoveled ahead just as he faded into view, his figure dark and towering in the swirling snows. Sansa approached him, somewhat cautiously, uncertain of what his manner might be. She relaxed, however, when he saw her and appeared pleased by the sight. He leaned on his spade and repeated his words from last night, confirming to Sansa that she hadn’t dreamt it: _‘_ _Little Bird_ _’_

“Are you coming?” She asked. She frowned as he shook his head, gesturing to the walkways around them and signing, _“_ _Need work_ _”_

He needed to keep the walkways cleared or the snow would overtake them entirely. She could see that. Still, it was disappointing.

He could see her expression plainly, so he added, _“_ _Later_ _”_

Sansa smiled. “Yes, later. I should like that.”

She touched his arm lightly as she left him to continue on to the common hall. On her way, she noticed more brothers were outside with shovels in the swirling haze of snow, digging out the walkways. The Isle was a small place in comparison to most, but still quite large on its own. There was much ground to cover, to be sure.

She gave each brother she encountered a greeting, which they returned. Brother Brandon was shoveling this morning as well, and she greeted him as she passed.

A snowball struck Sansa in the back as she walked away from him, and she giggled as she spun around, ducking as he threw another. _‘_ _Watch your back,_ _’_ he reminded her, and she dug her fingers into the snow and returned the attack, hitting him square in the chest. Thus ensued another impromptu snowball fight between the two of them, lasting until the truce was called, by brother Brandon this time.

Her hands were numb and tingling and her hair full of snow when at last she entered the common hall, laughter still in her throat. She found it sparsely populated; most of the brothers were outside still. She sat down by herself, a meal brought to her soon after. She began to pick at her food, alone with her thoughts. For the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to ponder without abandon.

Sansa used to hate playing in the snow, she reflected as it melted in her hair; perhaps Alayne wouldn’t leave entirely after all. The thought pleased her. She liked being a lady, but she had also enjoyed the freedom of being a bastard. Maybe she could be both a lady of courtesy _and_ bastard bold. Instinctively, her mind wandered to Jon Snow. It gave her pause.

He was dead too, now. News of the Lord Commander’s death had come, about a year ago, in an even more terrifying letter addressed to her father. _Not your father. Alayne_ _’_ _s._ He had laughed at it, calling it a desperate attempt by the Watch, who clearly just wanted their swords and supplies to last through the Winter. He had wanted to share in his mirth, asking Alayne to read it aloud before he tossed it in the flames.

“ _Grumpkins and Snarks,_ _”_ he had chuckled, shaking his head. _“_ _They take me for a fool._ _”_

Alayne had laughed with him, while Sansa thought back to all the tales Old Nan had told her; the scary ones, the ones Bran liked so much. She thought of Jon, and how many tears she knew she would shed for him once she was alone. _Mutiny at the Wall. Lord Commander is dead. The Others are coming, and the long night follows. Send help, or all will be lost._

A year had come and gone, and Winter had come. Sansa wondered how they had fared. Sansa hoped some of the other lords had taken the letter more seriously, whether the Others were real or no; it was the realm’s responsibility to supply the Watch, was it not? Was it not the one thing the Seven Kingdoms could agree to do together? Had the land been torn apart by war so badly that men would laugh in the face of a cry for help?

The raven who bore the message had still been perched on the window ledge, Sansa remembered. It had mimicked Petyr’s last word, as ravens were sometimes wont to do, the clever ones at least: _“_ _Fool! Fool! Fool!_ _”_ it screeched. It echoed in Sansa’s ears now, as it brought more memories to mind, memories she had been eager to stow away.

Ravens had become increasingly more clever in the Vale as of late, it seemed, for she’d never heard so many that could repeat words before. She hadn’t been the only one who noticed, but she alone took notice of it only happening when she was around. She had started to pay attention to the birds eventually, and she was now sure that they had been her first sign, but not from the Seven Gods—this one had been from the Old. Sansa knew the stories of the Children of the Forest, and their talking ravens. They hadn’t had to write letters back then, for the ravens could speak so well. It was said in the stories that such birds of today were long descended from that line.

Alayne hadn’t believed such nonsense at first, but for one time in particular—one _word_ in particular—that had struck her. _“_ _Pool!_ _”_ a bird had cried from a tree nearby, as Petyr had been telling her a story about Maidenpool. _“_ _Pool! Pool!_ _”_

The word had brought a name to her mind; a name she thought she had forgotten, but at the same time could never forget. Petyr had grown annoyed of the cawing, sighing, “Stranger take those blasted birds, I’ve taken all I can stand of their interruptions as of late.”

“ _Taken!_ _”_ the bird replied accusingly.

She hadn’t put the words together until later that night, in her dreams. She had dreamt of the day her world first crashed down around her, when she and Jeyne Poole were captured and kept in her bedchamber for days. She had been annoyed by all of Jeyne’s sobbing then, but she felt ashamed of it later, for she had never seen her best friend again. Sansa never discovered what had become of her, but a realization had come to her in this dream; a passing comment, long forgotten, coming back to the surface in a rush. _Littlefinger knew where she was._ Littlefinger had offered to see her dealt with.

When Alayne woke, she knew only one thing: _Whatever had happened to Jeyne Poole, it hadn_ _’_ _t been good._ And Littlefinger was the reason.

That was when she knew, for the first time in her heart, that she would have to get herself out of this situation. There was no one to help her now, and Littlefinger was no friend of hers. She was a pawn in his schemes, not a partner as he would have her believe. She was just another Jeyne Poole, only more valuable. She’d always known this truth, deep down; but the reality had crashed over her in that instant, just as it had done yesterday in the stables. She had to get away, and soon. Before the long night came. Before she had a new name.

She’d spent those last months trying to figure out the best possible way in her mind, but no such way presented itself. Before she knew it, it was her wedding night. _Again._

The entire affair was a sham, just as her previous marriage had been. Littlefinger said it wouldn’t matter in the end, but Sansa knew this marriage was a rushed affair, hastily stitched together at the last minute. This would be her third marriage now, having married Harry the Heir not long before he died of a heart attack, which had taken place shortly before Sweetrobin had stopped waking up. The Vale belonged to Petyr Baelish now. _The Lord of Poison. A scavenger King._

Rumors had spread of a Dragon Queen crossing the Narrow Sea, sooner than Petyr expected, and he was eager to be in her good graces when she arrived. He told Sansa that this changed things, and he planned on being on the winning side. As his luck would have it, another Targaryen had resurfaced, and word reached them that the Martells intended to offer their own heir to him. Not to be outdone, Petyr offered the hand of Sansa Stark—although in truth she was Alayne Hardyng now. Petyr assured her that such charges as regicide wouldn’t matter once the Targaryens were restored, and she in their favor. The same would apply to her previous marriages. In any case, he conveniently left all that information out of his proposition. She remembered wondering what he was conveniently leaving out in his promises to _her_.

The North had apparently appealed to the young Dragon more than Dorne, for he accepted, and had come straight to the Gates of the Moon to marry her. Petyr failed to mention to him that they didn’t yet have the strength of the North at their backs, but said it too would matter little, for once news of Sansa Stark’s new marriage spread, her old one annulled, and the Dragon Queen in their good graces, the North would come to them willingly. _A name is a powerful thing,_ he’d told her. _And there are still many who would rally behind the Targaryen name, just as much as Stark._ Together, they would have greater strength and claim than anyone.

The Marriage was planned mostly in secret, taking place in the late hours of the night. Only Petyr, a Septon, and the Targaryen’s envoy would bear witness and know of Sansa’s true identity. It would be safer to reveal who she was _after_ the alliances had been made, not before. The secrecy also benefitted the Targaryen prince, for he too was hunted; Petyr let him think it was his idea.

One of the Targaryen’s terms was that Sansa prove she was a maiden still, so she had been inspected by the Septon the day she was to be wed, her maidenhead confirmed to remain intact. Alayne had gotten Harry too drunk to perform all three times he’d tried before his heart attack; she had done it out of compassion for her friend Myranda—who, she knew, wanted him—but had also done it to preserve her own virtue. She had not wished for Harry to die as he did, but she’d held no love for him either. He was a nasty, selfish man who only had love for himself. Even still, Alayne had charmed him well enough, and convinced him they had indeed consummated.

The Septon had sent a request for annulment to the High Sparrow afterwards, though Sansa couldn’t be sure if it would reach him, or if he would even consider it legitimate. _Surely it can_ _’_ _t be that simple._ It had been enough for Petyr, however, who didn’t intend on waiting to hear back. Since Harry the Heir technically married Alayne Stone, no such process had been necessary then. Once they left the Vale, Littlefinger intended to spread the rumor that his daughter had tragically died. One less loose end to tie up.

Aegon had been a handsome man of an age with herself, with exotic blue hair that Sansa found charming. She remembered feeling confused by the whole thing, however, for she had thought Petyr meant to take Winterfell by marrying her himself. Now he was handing it over to the Targaryens, just like that? Maybe this prince was just another corpse in his path to achieving that end. It made her ill. She liked Aegon, although she had no love for him either, nor did she trust him. She knew that, if she were to marry him, surely he would be dead in a matter of time as well. Petyr still had bigger plans; he’d only altered them a bit to accommodate the new player who had entered his game of thrones. Sansa pitied her, too, whoever this Dragon Queen was. Would dragons be a match for the kind of scheming that went on at court? If the skulls said to be kept below the Red Keep were any indicator, the answer was no.

Petyr’s possessiveness of her was confirmed in the design of her wedding dress, she had noted as she looked on herself in a full-length mirror, hand maidens playing at her hair and lacing her bodice. Little wolves and mockingbirds decorated the collar, a subtle gesture that she was still his. Time was running out, and still she had no plan or opportunity.

Once she was married to Aegon, they would be returning to Winterfell. It made Alayne sick to think that Littlefinger might sit in her true father’s seat someday, and it was with that mental image that she knew she had to go, _now_ , or die in the attempt. The time for waiting had run its course.

Her heart had sank, then, when the door swung open, and Littlefinger entered the bedchamber. He sent the girls away, locking the door after them. Sansa remembered how hopeless it had seemed after that; he wasn’t going to let her out of his sight until the deed was done. She had missed her chance, if she’d ever had one.

He’d had other intentions, however. As he poured them each a cup of wine, he instructed her that she needed to make her new prince happy. She wouldn’t get out of it with her clever tricks this time, for he intended for her to be wed for much longer. Since she had never laid properly with a man before, with the Septon having already inspected her, he intimated to her that the first time should be something special, and what was more special than the love he had for her? What better way to learn, than from one’s own father? He offered her a cup of wine then, to toast to the new life that was waiting for her, and to special occasions such as these.

Sansa had stared at him, wondering if he truly thought her to be such a fool. _He_ _’_ _s always underestimated me,_ she thought. She refused the wine, claiming to have an upset stomach from the tightness of her lacings. She did have an upset stomach, in truth, but the dress was not the cause. He offered to loosen it for her, setting Sansa’s skin to crawling.

It hadn’t mattered, in the end. Ultimately growing tired of her polite refusals, Littlefinger pushed her roughly down on the bed, crawling on top of her and kissing her. Silent tears ran down the sides of her face, knowing he didn’t plan on stopping at kissing. Not tonight.

She could have screamed, but what good would it have done her? Littlefinger would surely have lies prepared in advance, would likely make it seem as though she initiated it. He didn’t act without forethought. It made sense to her now, how he always asked _her_ to kiss _him_ , rather than the other way around.

Completely at his mercy, Sansa had almost accepted her fate and let it happen. _Almost..._

He had her wrists pinned to the bed, surprisingly strong for such a small man, although she gave him no struggle. She just laid there, frozen in her fear and despair. He was trailing wet kisses down her neck, and when he came back up to lick her ear, a whisper escaped his lips. _“_ _Cat."_

That had been the straw that broke the horse’s back, disturbing Sansa so thoroughly that it jolted her to act. He had once told her how he’d claimed the maidenheads of both her mother and her aunt Lysa; one of those, she knew, was a lie. It revolted her to think he would add hers to his collection. She would stick to her original plan: get out of here, or die in the attempt. She waited for him to shift in his position atop her, when she could gain enough momentum to knee him—hard—in the groin.

Everything had happened so fast, then. She took advantage of his distraction as he howled in pain, shoving him off her onto the floor, and leapt off the bed to the other side. Heart hammering so hard she thought it might burst, she spied a knife on the cheese platter her handmaids had brought up earlier. She sprinted over and grabbed it, spun around, and held it out just as he was upon her again, the point threatening to pierce his throat if he came closer.

Then, time had seemed to freeze momentarily as she looked into his eyes, and he looked into hers. He was furious, but not stupid; he lifted his arms in surrender.

“You surprise me, my sweet child,” he said in a sickeningly saccharine voice. “Put the knife down, and we shall never speak of this again. How does that sound?”

He was smiling, but it didn’t reach his eyes. _It never reached his eyes._

“Have some wine,” she’d said, her voice quaking as much as her hands, betraying her. He protested at the idea, and Sansa drove the blade forward enough to puncture the skin.

“Drink. It.” She’d said through clenched teeth, in her attempt to hold back sobs. “Go to sleep. Or I will put you to sleep.”

She walked forward as he walked backward, until he bumped into the dressing table where he’d abandoned the goblets. “The other one,” she demanded when she saw him choose the one he’d poured for himself.

He tried to talk her out of it, made her empty promises and assured her he would make it up to her if she’d only put the knife away; but he never actually _apologized_. In the end, she’d drawn enough of his life’s blood to force him into it.

It worked so quickly, it surprised her. Littlefinger crumpled to the floor moments later. Curiously, however, he remained conscious. _Paralyzed_ , she realized, her stomach churning. Only his eyes moved.

“My mother never loved you,” she told him, her voice thick with loathing. “And this is for Jeyne.”

Taking the knife, Sansa bent over him and carefully drew a deep gash down the center of his face, from forehead to chin. He was unable to scream, but his eyes were deafening. _He could feel it._ She drove the knife deepest when it reached his lips, not stopping until it scraped the teeth beneath. She split his tongue as well, for the snake he was. Grotesque and quartered, no one would ever want to kiss those lips again. _Or trust the words that come out of them._

Still, she wrapped his face and set him on his side to keep him from bleeding to death, or choking on all the blood. She wasn’t sure how long it would take for someone to find him, or how long the poison would last. Surely, enough time for Petyr to feel confident in his endeavors; but not long enough to waste, either. It was midnight; the wedding was only an hour or so from now, two at most.

After that, time seemed to speed back up again. Shaken from the whole encounter, and horrified by what she’d done, Sansa fumbled around her bedroom and threw anything and everything she might find useful onto the bed. She held the knife in her sleeve and tied the blanket up around her things, tossing it out the window. She used her curtains as a rope to climb far enough down to jump safely, but she paused before she exited, looking back to where Petyr lay on the floor. She didn’t feel sorry. The world would now see his split face as clearly as she had seen his split personalities. _He’s the true traitor._

“I wish you would spend this time in regret,” she told him quietly. “But I know you’ll only spend it thinking of lies.”

When she reached the ground, she slumped down against the wall and sobbed in earnest, muffling the sound with her hands. She was shaking all over, and her chest heaved as she struggled to breathe through all her panic.

“ _Go!_ _”_ she thought she heard a bird screech from the roof. _“_ _Go! Go!_ _”_

She did go. And she didn’t look back.

Getting out of the Gates of the Moon had been easy after that, with how well she came to know the layout since the Eyrie had closed for Winter. She knew all the best hiding places. She knew when and where the guards were stationed, what their habits were, how attentive they were to their post. It was the dead of night, besides. She was able to slip by them without notice.

When she reached the Bloody Gate, the guards asked where she was going, but didn’t question her further. She had donned a few cloaks to give herself a hunched appearance, her sack slung over her shoulder, her head down. She did her best to sound old and frail as she told them she was going to her daughter’s village before the snows piled too high, for she was to be a grandmother. She could have cried with relief when they gave her passage, congratulating her and wishing her a safe journey. It had been anything but, in truth, although she knew it could have been much worse. _They could have found me_.

It had been snowing when she left, but Sansa took care to try and cover her tracks, or misdirect them when she could by walking in a circle and then walking out from it in different directions. It had slowed her progress considerably, but she hoped it would have the same effect on the search party.

She had walked until her feet bled, and then walked some more. She slept mostly in trees, when she could find ones with dense enough branches to hide her. She ate bugs, leaves, and snow. She shivered so hard she feared her bones might break. But she had _made it_. She decided upon making human contact again that she must remain as Alayne, and would likely be Alayne until her death. She had been wrong, however…it felt as though she had been reborn.

Tears were in her eyes as she thought back on it all. It had been the first time she’d properly reflected on the memory, and she found she was filled with a new strength for it. Things seemed so bleak before, but now...

The Gods were good, and although there were no wolves left, there was at least a dog who had survived. It would never be enough, she thought sadly, but it was the best she could have hoped for.

_The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives._

He had a pack of his own now, and he did not howl...but Jon Snow’s wolf had never howled either; a mute. She remembered the red of his eyes, the white of his fur, the face; he looked every bit like a Weirwood. Just as Sandor Clegane looked every bit a faithful servant of the Seven.

But Ghost was still a wolf, and perhaps Sandor Clegane was still a dog. He couldn’t come with her when she left this place, but if she was lucky, maybe he would impart on her some of his ferocity. She would need it on the path ahead.

Inside, she was not only Sansa Stark; she was Alayne, she was Myranda, she was Jeyne, she was Cersei, and Margaery, Littlefinger...she was Arya, Jon, Robb, Bran, Rickon, her Father, her lady mother...a Stark. A lady. A wolf. _Even a little bird._ She carried pieces of everyone she knew inside her, wove them into her, and called on them when she needed them. In that way, she would never be alone, not truly.

She was pondering on that when the door to the common hall opened, snow swirling in as the Elder Brother crossed the threshold.  He mostly took meals in his personal chambers, but every few days or so he would join the others here, sitting with a different brother each time; but she noticed that he had his eyes on her often. He had been helping to clear the walkways, she observed, for he was glistening with sweat and covered in snow. He shook off the excess as he took notice of her, and came to sit across from her at the table.

“Winter is here in earnest, it would seem.” he said, shrugging off his heavy cloak. Snow still clung to his eyebrows. Sansa had finished her breakfast already, but felt contented to keep him company. He turned down a meal in favor of hot wine, and considered Sansa as he drank.

“What’s on your mind, child?” he asked, noting her expression.

“Nothing of consequence,” she lied. She changed the subject quickly. “I would like to join your prayers today, if it please you,” she said, “To pray for Spring.”

Elder Brother smiled at that. “You would be most welcome to join your prayers to ours, Alayne; I would be pleased to have you attend with us at long last.”

Sansa bowed her head slightly in apology. “I confess it, my faith was shaken.”

“Pray I ask what has restored it?” Sansa looked up at him, biting her lip. He always wanted to _know_ things.

“The Gods have shown me proof beyond doubt that they are with me,” she said after a moment. “The old and the new.”

“You worship all the Gods?” He asked, interested. Sansa shook her head. “Not all. Just those.”

“I’ve heard it said that the more Gods you keep, the harder it is to have faith. You must be blessed indeed.”

Sansa laughed at the word. “Forgive me, but I would sooner call myself cursed, for all the challenges they seem like to face me with. I have renewed faith, and it gives me joy. But it has cost me greatly as well.”

The look in Elder Brother’s eyes were of empathy; perhaps he too felt cursed, although he didn’t say so. “The Gods reward the faithful, and they challenge the worthy, sweet child. Winter doesn’t last forever.”

“Only for the living,” she replied quietly.

The wind howled against the windows, and the Elder Brother considered her for a long while. “Surely you’ve heard that Dragons fly our skies, and the dead march in the far North. I wouldn’t think it so far-fetched to believe you will feel the Spring breeze upon your face again.”

Sansa smiled in spite of herself, for the thought of Dragons and restless dead frightened her, but none so much as Littlefinger. His wrath would be terrible if he ever found her.

“Indeed, it’s as though the songs and stories are coming true. But none of the ones that have happy endings.”

“Life’s not a song, or a story,” he said to her gently, “just as songs and stories are not life. Once you can separate them, you can appreciate each for what they are; for one does not diminish the other.”

She raised her eyes, and they looked at each other for a moment. Then, he rose from the table and said he looked forward to seeing her at prayer. He left, leaving Sansa alone to ponder on his words.

 


	11. Sandor 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He cherished the lack of fear in her eyes when she looked at him now, but fear was what he’d earned.

The snows raged on over the course of the next two days, unrelenting. It was all he could do to continue his preparations in between all his other duties, as well as his distraction, which plagued him as much as the snows had since that night in the sept.

He had dreamt of her last night. In truth, he dreamt of her often, but this dream had been new; different. She’d been wearing the dress she arrived in. _The wedding dress._ It wasn’t ragged in his dream, however, but newly made and still magnificent. Blood red and shining silver, with long, wide-mouthed sleeves. Pearls crusted the bodice, and rubies were sewn in along the skirts. In his dream, she was facing away from him, and next to her was her husband-to-be.

The man’s back was to him as well, but he was shorter than her. It looked unnatural; the whole scene sent his blood to boiling. Sandor was standing at the back of the sept, wanting to stop it, but he could not speak. Then he felt it. At his side, he had a sword strapped at his hip. He looked down to see he wasn’t wearing his usual dun-and-brown robes, but his old armor instead. His face was exposed, yet his hair was still tied back rather than hanging in his eyes.

Instinctively, Sandor unsheathed the sword and strode forward, down the long aisle that seemed to grow longer as he progressed, raising it as he advanced. It was too late by the time the man started to turn around. He brought the sword down with all his might on the little bastard, cutting him from shoulder to navel. Sandor tried to glimpse his face, but all he saw was blood, blood, blood...

He turned to the girl, the redness of his rage dissolving as he did so. He expected her to be horrified by what he’d done, to run screaming from his presence. Instead, she looked on him as though he had just pulled her from a burning building.

“I knew you’d come,” she breathed.

Still unable to speak, Sandor let his sword fall to the ground, and she reached up to touch his face. Just as he leaned down to kiss her, he woke.

It took Sandor a moment to realize he’d been dreaming, but when he did, he was flooded with familiar feelings of shame and disgust. The dream was new, but at least that much was the same. His fantasies were getting more deranged after that night in the sept, but that wasn’t what he felt ashamed of most. Her words rang in his ears. _I knew you'd_ _come._

_You never came for her,_ the voice in his head sneered. _You left her, tail between your legs._ All she had endured since then had been at least partially his fault. The dream served as a reminder of that. No matter how his subconscious tried, he would never be able to change the past.

He had resumed eating at normal times in the common hall again, as well as continuing to teach the little bird his silent language. Neither of them spoke of the mutual recognition while others were around, but it was acknowledged in subtle ways—his eating in front of her, for one thing. For another, she attended the daily prayers now, and would take her place beside him in the sept.

She had taken to accompanying him during the day as well, spreading gravel while he shoveled snow mostly, and _singing_ while she worked alongside him. Sandor ignored her when she did this, and at first felt perverted to hear her sing around him so willingly, as she once promised she would when she was still innocent. _But she’s still naive._ He quickly grew to enjoy the sound, however. Her voice was a warmth that cut through the swirling angry bite of Winter. Sometimes, he almost hummed along with her, but always caught himself before he did.

Her chirping had also become more honest, now that she knew him. She still held back too many details, and he still didn’t push her for more, but she confirmed she had been in the Vale during their time apart, posing as a lord’s bastard daughter. _She had been so close by this whole time,_ Sandor thought for the hundredth time. While he was healing, she had been suffering just a stone’s throw away. The injustice of that made him ill. He had almost brought her bitch sister there, once...if he had known, he would have found his way up that fucking rock. If there were Gods, why did they needlessly cause her more suffering, and mock him by bringing him so close? Why had they chosen his atonement over her happiness?

The snows were piled up so high on either side of the walkways that they came to his chest now. The wind had hardened them into walls of ice, and today Sandor lifted the girl up to sit atop them, to get a better view of the landscape. That, too, had changed; she didn’t tense up when he touched her, as she had that first night. Her eyes lit up at the sight of the open world before her, and it sent Sandor’s chest to thumping. She had looked on him with a similar expression in his dream.

Soon, the temperatures would drop too low to spend so long outdoors, but it gave Sandor comfort to know that any parties out looking for the girl would surely be turning back now, not wanting to risk their own lives in the pursuit. Maybe they even thought her dead, since they hadn’t come sniffing around for her here yet. Perhaps he could start sleeping a little easier, although he knew he still wouldn’t.

The wind howled constantly, and Sansa confided to him that it reminded her of home. He wanted to tell her that ‘home’ doesn’t exist for her anymore, but he didn’t see the benefit of reminding her; she likely already knew. _She's_ _not a child anymore,_ he told himself. The only lessons she needed from him were the ones he was already giving her at mealtimes.

This place had felt closer to a home than he’d ever known, but it still wasn’t where he belonged. He’d always considered ‘home’ to be the grave he would one day be dumped into. Sandor’s home didn’t have walls, it seemed; it had a beating heart, a head full of songs, and a traumatic existence that rivaled his own. He yearned for her to look a child again; to _be_ a child again. That had been easier.

_She thinks I kissed her._ He couldn’t put it out of his mind. It hadn’t come up again, which was a relief just as much as it was a disappointment. _If I had kissed her, I would'v_ _e known it, and I sure as shit wouldn't_ _have stopped there._ That was the worst of it, to Sandor’s mind. The Hound would never have stopped there. In truth, he almost _had_ gone there, but she had completely disarmed him, showing him mercy instead, even as she rejected him. Cutting him deeper than any sword could have done.

Not kissing her—being broken by her instead—was part of the reason he had wound up here at all, Elder Brother had pointed out long ago. And here she sat, thinking the Hound was the _first_ man to kiss her. Seeming to think that was a _good_ thing. It sickened him.

Once the walkways were clear again at last—for the day, at least—Sandor returned to where the little bird was perched. He signed that he was going to the stables, offering to lift her down so she could find something else to do, as she usually did this time of day. He intended on getting snowshoes on Stranger and seeing how he fared. The beast had never seen snows this high.

"Can I come?” She asked. Sandor hesitated. ' _Horse mean,'_  he signed. The last thing he needed was for Stranger to bite off one of her ears.

She blushed a little as she said, “I know. I mean...that’s how I knew. Who you were.” She met his eyes. “I went to the stables to help, but you weren’t there. He was.”

_That explains a fucking lot,_ he thought, narrowing his eyes at her. If he had been more careful, he could have preserved the truth longer from her. He would be lying to himself if he said he would change it if he could, though. She never failed to meet his eyes, despite knowing him. In fact, she was spending more time around him _because_ she knew him. He would never get used to that, and in truth felt a little disturbed by it. However, he couldn’t deny that he enjoyed it.

Was the rest worth withholding from her? The plan, the bags packed in the empty stall, the purpose for training his horse for these conditions? The thought of spelling it out for her with his hands was enough to decide that, no, he wouldn’t give her information she didn’t need. But he wouldn’t lie to her if asked, either.

He gave her his consent to come along, and she lifted her arms enough for him to take her by the waist and lower her to the ground. “He even let me pat him,” she said proudly as they walked, and he looked down at her. _'Liar,'_ he signed. She didn’t know that word, but seemed to gather his meaning from his expression.

“I’m being honest! I’ll show you.” she insisted. Sandor snorted, signing _'no'_ , as in, _no you won't_ _._

He regretted it at once. “You can stop me, if you can catch me,” she said defiantly, her expression playful. Before he could react, Sansa tore off down the walkway, disappearing around a corner.

A string of curses were at the tip of Sandor’s tongue as he half-ran after her, his lame leg hindering him. It would be futile to chase her, or anyone ever again for that matter. He ran often to keep the stiffness at bay—he had none of his old speed, nor was it a pretty sight—but trying to do so now soured his mood. How was he supposed to take care of her when he couldn’t even keep up with her? He slowed to a walk as she came into view again, at the other end of the aisle from him already. She seemed to notice, for she stopped as she was about to round the next corner, and looked back at him.

Sandor felt more humiliated with every step as he lurched over to her, where she stood waiting, breathless. He didn’t hurry on her account, not wanting her to see him hobble any more than she needed to. As he got closer, he saw the apologetic look on her face. He put up a hand to silence her as she opened her mouth to placate him, and brushed past her, continuing onwards towards the stable block.

She walked quickly to keep a pace with him. “I’m sorry,” she said, and it was hard not to take her sincerity as pity. “I forgot.”

He only grunted in response, and the rest of the walk passed by in silence. When they reached Stranger’s stall, the horse walked forward to bring his head over the stable door, recognizing his master. To shift the tension away from his injured pride, he signed to Sansa that the brothers had re-named his horse ‘Driftwood’. She laughed at that, and in spite of himself, he secretly smiled with her.

“It doesn’t suit him,” she observed. Sandor grunted his agreement as he took the snowshoes from the wall and entered Stranger’s stall to fit them on him. As predicted, he didn’t like it much. He swatted Sandor in the face with his tail and jerked his feet away as he tried to grab them. Sansa was at the door watching, and giggling.

“Stranger is one of the seven faces of God,” she said thoughtfully after a few minutes, as Sandor was fastening the second shoe. He looked up to see her stroking the beast’s muzzle. _Only because I'm_ _sitting here,_ he assured himself.

She continued, “It’s strange, then, that he is held in such contempt even by the holiest men. If death is a part of life, why condemn him so?”

_Because people only like pretty things, like you used to,_ he wanted to say. Instead, he settled on spelling out, _'Fear'._

Sandor finished strapping the snowshoes onto Stranger’s hooves, and he stood to look it all over. The horse pawed the ground, displeased, but wasn’t trying to kick them off either. He took that as a good sign, and pointed to where the saddle and bridle were kept, asking Sansa to retrieve them, which she did.

“Do you mean to ride out into the villages with him?” She asked, a trace of apprehension to her voice. Was she afraid _he_ was going to leave _her_?

_'No,'_ he signaled, before spelling out, _'training'._ She relaxed somewhat, and Sandor led the now-bridled horse out of the stall by his reins. He would lead him around on foot at first before trying to ride; Sandor wasn’t even sure if the snow would hold up under both of their weight. It was hardened enough for the little bird to sit upon, but that wasn’t saying much.

Sansa giggled at the sight of Stranger walking in his snowshoes, lifting his feet up much higher than necessary due to the foreign objects strapped to them. Sandor mocked the horse too, shaking his reins a little and running a hand down his face. He had cleared out a ramp the night before, for Stranger to be able to get to that height more easily. He wouldn’t be able to run in these shoes, just as Sandor couldn’t run either. He felt a queer sense of solidarity with the horse over that.

Sansa wanted to join them atop the snow, but Sandor thought her tiny feet would send her to sinking, so he lifted her up onto the horse instead. Sitting side-saddle, she patted the horse as they progressed across the open field, Stranger still lifting his feet too high but adjusting all the same. His own feet sank more than the horse’s hooves did, and Sandor cursed inwardly at the thought of having to wear snowshoes himself. He decided to turn back for now rather than risk a collapse; a spooked horse with a girl astride would be disaster. So he turned Stranger around and headed back for the ramp, contented to let the horse adjust to his new footing on solid ground, so that the girl could continue to ride.

“I told you he liked me,” she said, triumphant. Sandor rolled his eyes at her, but didn’t argue. He would let her have this victory. He led the horse around for awhile, who occasionally stomped his hooves and threw his head in protest, but remained calm otherwise.

Sansa was silent again, and Sandor could tell she was thinking. She always considered her words carefully before she said them, he knew. She’d had to. Where they had come from, the wrong words could mean your life.

“I wish you could speak,” she said finally, quietly. “Or that I understood more. I wish you could co—I wish I could _know_ you better, before...” she trailed off, looking out over the landscape and biting her lip. “before I’m on my own again.”

Sandor stopped walking, Stranger stopping with him. Sansa looked down at him, her eyes shining with tears she was holding back. _Are you out of your fucking mind?_ He thought, staring up at her incredulously. He wouldn’t expect her to know that he had every intention of coming with her, wherever it lead, but the fact that she could _want_ that was too much.

With one hand still clutching the reins, he spelled out each word for her with the other: _'I never kissed you.'_

_I'm not the man you think I am._ It was unfair for him to mislead her into thinking him better than he was. No matter how good it felt. His mouth twitched.

She didn’t seem to comprehend at first, apparently not expecting that to be his response. “Yes, you did,” she insisted, a little indignantly. “I remember.”

_'Remember wrong,'_ he signed. She shook her head.

“Stop it.” she snapped. “You did. It was my first kiss, and a lady remembers her first kiss.”

Sandor glared up at her, wanting to shake her out of the delusion. He sighed, gesturing to his face, the left side; it wasn’t visible, but she would know what lie underneath. Having to spell it out, he said, _‘_ _Never kissed._ _’_ He hesitated, then added, _'a_ _nyone. ever.'_

In truth, the only kisses Sandor had ever known were received from whores, but never on the mouth. He had laid with them to make himself feel like a man, but it never gave him that sensation, so he stopped going long ago. He had never been the one to initiate such intimacy, in any case; unless one counted the exchange of coin.

She looked lost at sea, for the look in her eyes. She was thinking back on it, he knew, replaying the scene in her mind. He watched her expression as she mulled it over. Finally, after a time, she sighed.

“I think I knew, in a way.” she admitted, her eyes on her hands. “It was something no one could take from me; even if everything else had been lost. I wished it were true so badly, I made it so.” She raised her eyes to him; ashamed, of all things. _I'm the one who deserved to feel ashamed_.

_'Wish something else. You deserved better than you got,'_ he signed, spelling out the words she didn’t know _. 'and deserved a lot better than a dog.'_

He felt he had robbed her of something, but at the same time felt as though he had saved her from it as well. Sansa’s expression shifted however, and she looked almost affronted.

“You don’t get to tell me what I deserve,” she bristled. “No one does.”

Sandor raised his eyebrows at the sudden shift in demeanor, nonplussed. When Sansa spoke again, her tone had a conviction to it that he’d never heard before.

“I’ve been betrothed to a handsome prince, who beat me and murdered my father. Betrothed to a crippled lord, whose family abandoned me the second I wasn’t useful. Married to the maimed dwarf whose family murdered mine,” She was counting them off on her digits. “Married a second time to a handsome lord who only cared about himself, only to be betrothed to _another_ handsome prince, who only wanted my claim.”

_Five fingers, five suitors._ Sandor felt sick.

“That night, when the Blackwater burned,” she went on, softening slightly. “You were horrible to me, and I thought you meant to kill me. I won’t deny it: I was terrified of you. You were so angry..." She reached out for him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “but I _forgave_ you. I understood, in time. You were afraid too; the fear made you wild, and you tried to drown it in your cups.” Sandor looked away, disgusted by the memory.

“Except for that night, you always protected me. I never forgot. The last time I saw this horse, it was when you _saved_ me. I thought you kissed me..." She trailed off again, and Sandor looked back up into her eyes. It was like staring into the sun, for how difficult it was.

“Perhaps because I’ve seen enough of this world to know...a wolf would take a kiss from a dog before a prince—every time—had she a choice in the matter.”

Sandor couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t stand here, listening to her acknowledge how horrible he was, while raising him up like he was some gallant knight. He had shown her only the most basic decencies, but they were so foreign to her, she took them for proof that he was some kind of honorable man. He cherished the lack of fear in her eyes when she looked at him now, but fear was what he’d earned. Not this...not _adoration_. Fear was easier.

She gasped as he lifted her roughly from the saddle, shoving her against Stranger’s midsection. The horse threw his head and half-reared, but didn’t move.

He had her arms pinned to her sides as he bent his face down to hers, his eyes blazing, a growl low in his throat. He wanted to scare her—willing her to see how wrong she was—with the ugly reality of him in her face. _Does this look like the face of a man you want to be kissing you?_

But she didn’t look even slightly afraid, for all her heavy breathing. Was she... _excited?_

Sandor's grip on her slackened, disturbed and somewhat bemused. As he moved to back away from her, however, her hands flew forward.

She took him by his face covering, pulling him towards her and exposing him in the process. Sandor could have easily jerked out of her gasp, he knew, but his brain seemed disconnected from his body.

"You don’t frighten me,” she breathed, their faces inches apart. She seemed to be realizing it for herself in that moment, for the look on her face. She yanked him forward again, and suddenly, her lips were pressed against his.

His eyes were wide in shock as she kissed him—not caring if he reciprocated or not, it seemed. Her hands grasped either side of his face, firm, as though to keep him there. Sandor told himself he should stop her—reminded himself he was bigger and stronger than her, that he held the power here—and he was taking advantage of her if he _didn't_ put an end to it.

But the fire blazing in the pit of his stomach ignored it all; he was entirely powerless, in truth.

All reason left him as he leaned into her and took her hair in his hands, cradling her head gingerly as he kissed Sansa Stark back with every ounce of passion he received. Her hands softened, wrapping themselves around his neck.

Then she bit his lip—hard—and with a jolt he drove his tongue into her mouth, his grip on her tightening. She met him there, laughter in her throat as her tongue slid against his, impossibly soft. When she moaned into him, he nearly lost all control.

Instead, he finally found his sense again and broke away from her, his breath coming out ragged. She kept her grip about his neck, however, restraining him still.

“Sansa,” he whispered, half a gasp, his forehead resting against hers. His mind was still numb and uncomprehending, but comfortably so, for the time-being.

The wind howled, louder than before, and he resisted the urge to tell her how at home he felt.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the Sandy-Salsa blog for (TL;DR) [Notes.](http://sandy-salsa.tumblr.com/post/126811553520/musings-pacing-action-and-beyond)


	12. Sansa 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His intimidation was his armor just as her courtesies had been hers. He had always seen through her armor, however. Now, she could see through his as well.

Sansa opted to walk the grounds by herself today, not offering herself up for any chores. She wanted this time to herself to think, and yet for all the thinking she had done, she still felt just as conflicted as before—if not more.

She had made it all the way to the docks where she first arrived at this place, gazing out over the water that had not been there when she'd crossed. She felt much less claustrophobic here. The world seemed to open up, outside the tall walls of snow and ice that only grew higher by the day. The brothers had set wooden beams across the tops of the walkways this morning, now that they were high enough to be traveled by the tallest of them. It kept the snow off the footpaths, but it was so dark—even by day—that the brothers took to carrying torches around everywhere they walked.

She closed her eyes as the howling wind picked back up again, embracing the feel of the snow falling on her face.

Despite all the things she was feeling, Sansa didn't feel shame. She knew what shame felt like, and this wasn't it. She had misjudged Joffrey, and that had been shameful. She had betrayed her father, and that too filled her with shame. Trusting the Tyrells, trusting Dontos, trusting Littlefinger, trusting everyone for their pretty words and never considering that they could be lies. Not appreciating her brothers and sister more when she had the chance...

Sansa had since learned how to detect falsehoods and sow distrust, how to see with new eyes; although it was too late in many cases, she must not look back and dwell.

It hadn't been a  _first_  kiss, she had to concede, but it had been the  _best_  kiss. That was, until he had found himself again and broken away from her in earnest. He'd signed her a stiff farewell and stalked off towards the stables to return Stranger, looking utterly dazed. Sansa hadn't followed him. It had been unfair, she knew. She had taken a kiss from him, to make up for the one she thought he'd taken from her, and it wasn't until he left her standing there in the snow that she realized just how violated he must have felt by it. She would go to him and apologize, next time she saw him. He hadn't showed up for dinner that night, nor to break his fast this morning. If he was absent again, she would seek him out, and promise him that she would show more consideration for him in the future. Hopefully, that would break the tension she had caused.

Still, despite her guilt over the matter, Sansa had  _liked_  it. For the first time in her life, she had felt what it was like to have a man grow weak for no other reason than because she was touching him; and not just any man. Sandor Clegane, the  _Hound_. He had broken his vows in her name, quite literally so. Although an observer might call it sin, Sansa herself had found it to be quite divine.

When she pondered on it further, she realized that it was still a 'first' in other ways, ones that were perhaps more meaningful besides. If he were to be believed, it was the first time anyone had kissed  _him._  Sansa couldn't help herself feeling proud about that; powerful, in a way.

Most importantly, however, it had been the first kiss she had  _chosen_  to give. Nothing was at stake, no one had coerced her or arranged it in advance; it had been her choice to make, and it made all the difference. It was the kind of kiss she'd always heard about in songs, but had never seen proof of for herself.  _Life isn_ _'_ _t a song,_  Elder Brother's words came back to her. But, she saw it for the reality it was as well, and she found it diminished nothing.

Before Alayne, before spending a year in the company of Myranda Royce and Mya Stone, Sansa never would have been so bold. A devious smile crept to her lips at that. _Littlefinger sowed such boldness most of all, yet he will reap none of it._ She wondered what he would think of that, but desperately hoped she would never find out. Littlefinger was easily the biggest danger to her now, and she would not come out victorious in any realistic confrontation with him. Not even with the Hound at her side; his strength would be no match for Littlefinger's numbers.  _Or cunning_ , she had to admit. She didn't think Sandor Clegane a dull man; quite the opposite, he was cleverer than he let on. But one clever man against Littlefinger's sort of scheming was no match. Not that that would ever come to pass, for he would remain here long after she left.

Although she felt guilty to have violated him, Sansa felt that one day, she would be glad she had taken the chance while she had one. She had a real memory now, not one she had made up.  _Not one associated with fear and blood, either._

There had been a heat to the moment that possessed her, taking leave of her senses long enough to act. In truth, something had changed after the dream she'd had the night before. It had started out as a nightmare. It was her wedding night again, but instead of Aegon, she was marrying Littlefinger. And then  _he_  had come, cut him down right before her eyes. She had woken just as he leaned forward to kiss her. That queer, inexplicable disappointment had followed her the entire day, and intensified with the revelation that he'd never kissed her at all...right up until she'd kissed him for herself.

She had meant for the kiss to be quick and chaste, just enough to satisfy her own curiosity. But a strange ache had overcome her, something she'd never felt before in the presence of anyone but for herself and her own midnight musings. It made her blush to think of it. Myranda would be teasing her right now, but would also be proud. She wished so badly to have her best friend about her; someone to talk to about it all.

Once, she would have been too afraid of him to even think of doing such a thing. That had been his intention, she knew; he had tried to scare her with his size and strength, and it might have worked once. His eyes betrayed him entirely, however, and it had thrilled her instead. With the knowledge that he wouldn't hurt her—with his words or his fists—she actually found his aspects more appealing than fearsome. She wondered if that frustrated him, and it made her smile to think it did. His intimidation was his armor just as her courtesies had been hers. He had always seen through her armor, however. Now, she could see through his as well. _I don't need to be courteous to him, and he does not need to scare me._

 _And he kissed me back._ She had already taken more than she should, she repeatedly chided herself, and she knew it was selfish to act at all. She had no intentions of repeating it, but once had been wrong enough. They were on holy ground, he was a holy man, and he was promised to the Gods now, not to her. If the Elder Brother were to find out...

She had told herself similar things while deciding whether to confront him about his identity, and yet it had changed her actions not at all. And now she had kissed him. What would her own selfishness possess her to do next?

Even if she were to have her own way, what realistic future was there? She was hunted by Littlefinger and the crown; even without those concerns, where would the Hound fit in?

She was too highborn for it to be allowed. She distantly hoped to reclaim her family's seat someday, now that there was no one left to but for herself.  _There must always be a Stark in Winterfell._  How could she win the hearts of her people if not for binding her house through a good marriage? The thought sickened her; had Cersei been right all along? Was her only means of power in this world tucked between her legs? Were all women just broodmares, in the end? Would she never have a choice in the matter, would her own merits never have worth, just because of her sex? Was it really she who was selfish, or those who put such importance on such matters?

Sansa's head was spinning. She had only taken a kiss, and now she was thinking of marriage.  _How could I not, though?_ She'd been wed twice, and betrothed thrice. All kisses had lead her down that path in the past. When he had come to her in her dream, the sight of him standing there instead of Littlefinger—or anyone else—had been  _pleasant_. Of course, outside of dreams, that wasn't an option; but it had planted a dangerous idea all the same. After all her suitors, after all her experiences, after all her suffering…it was the only option that sent her stomach to fluttering.  _He's the opposite of the Lords and Knights and Liars of King's Landing._ He reminded her of Winterfell. He would never hurt her; he would  _protect_  her... _cloak_  her. He embodied the loyalty and honesty that Sansa always imagined were part of a good marriage. Out of any man she knew outside of her family, she knew him to have the most honor.

Still, he was promised here, and she was destined elsewhere. And neither of them would get to make that choice, even if they wanted to. She would take care to put that particular idea out of her mind. After all, marriage involved more than mere companionship; she was more than familiar with the concept, albeit not as yet intimately so. Sansa wasn't capable of pondering such things without feeling thoroughly repulsed, however. Marriage had never been the stuff of songs in her experience, not since the day she left Winterfell.  _But what of when I return to Winterfell?_

She then thought of her father and her lady mother, and knew that her fantasies had  _some_  basis in reality.  _And yet, even their story ended in tragedy, as it had begun._ Even her mother was forced into a marriage she didn't choose. _And then she died, at a wedding._ Everything that her mother had tolerated and sacrificed in the name of family, duty, and honor were all swept away in only a few quick, violent strokes. Her father had at least been granted the mercy of not having to watch his house turn to ash before him. Sansa was all that remained of her mother's legacy, as much as the ancient Stark legacy. She wanted to do them proud, but she did not want to live her mother's life. She wanted to  _choose_. _When it comes to marriage, will I ever get to?_

She stood abruptly. The howling was back; no, in truth, it had never stopped. Sansa noticed for the first time, however, that there was no wind. Snow was still falling steadily, but it drifted softly in her hair rather than whip at her face. She tried to peer through the trees on the opposite bank, so far away and yet the howling cut through the air so clearly. There had to be a whole pack of them, she thought. There were so many voices lost in the noise of it all, but one was deeper than the others and easier to pick out.

If the Hound were with her, Sansa knew he would point out that wolves were as common as bread and bastards; but it sent her hair standing on end all the same. Were they warning her, or beckoning her forth? If this was another sign from the Gods, she wished it would come to her more clearly. How was she supposed to separate the mundane from the benevolent?

She turned and headed back towards the commune. She was a Stark of Winterfell—the last of her name—and Winter had come. Wolves thrived in Winter. They grew thicker coats, and carried themselves on large paws to prowl atop the snow. Come Spring, things would be different; but for now, she was thriving. Maybe she was selfish, but maybe Winter was the time to be so. And Winter showed no signs of stopping any time soon. Winter changed things.

As the light of the common hall came into view at the end of the long, dark walkway, she noticed someone standing there. Elder Brother. Judging by his body language upon seeing her, he had been waiting for her there.

"I hope you are well, child," he greeted her as she neared, coming to a stop before him. "If you wouldn't mind, I would ask you to postpone supper tonight. I have need to speak with you."

Sansa felt a fluttering in her stomach, but not the thrilling kind this time. "Of course, Elder Brother. I would be glad to join you. Could I ask after the meaning of your need?"

"No," he replied bluntly. Then he added, "But all will be clear. Come, Lady Stark; we have much to discuss."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy! Only four more chapters until Part 1 is done. Part 2 will be coming sooon! And of course, this story is in the 'fantasy' genre, so I'll be rolling with several of the more 'magical' threads in aSoIaF over time! A huge thanks to everyone for all their feedback so far, you're #1!


	13. Sandor 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor hadn’t slept well last night, warring with himself over whether to make this confession or not. Presently, he found it to be a mistake. Elder Brother was still going to give him exactly what he wanted. What she likely saw as tying up a loose end, to Sandor it was opening a door that would take all his strength to close again.

Sandor was pacing restlessly in the Hermit’s Hole, having come to confess to Elder Brother after the day’s prayers. He’d almost convinced himself not to bother, but the man had instilled a powerful sense of guilt in himself that was impossible to shove away. _Especially in this, of all things._

“ _I kissed her,_ _”_ he had said through clenched teeth, once the door closed behind them. “Seven fucking Hells, _I kissed her._ _”_

That had taken Elder Brother aback, and it took much prying on his part to gather the full story. Sandor revealed all: the night in the Sept, her discovery at the stables, the imagined kiss, and finally, the real one. Even the dream he’d had.

The man had taken it all in without comment—and had the grace not to scold him—but he didn’t necessarily look pleased either.

“I suspected she would discover you in time,” sighed Elder Brother. “but this was not the time nor the manner which I suspected, I admit.”

“No _shit_ ,” Sandor replied irritably. _It was not the time nor the manner which I suspected, either._

Elder Brother spread his hands. “I think it’s appropriate we include the girl in our plans.”

Sandor had balked at that. “There can be no _plan_ ,” he shot back, incredulous. “If I folded to temptation _here_ , of all places, what do you think will happen when you turn us loose? Do you care for the girl so little? Send her out with brother Brandon, he’s bonded with the girl as well, but he at least wouldn’t touch her.”

“Brother Brandon has taken vows,” Elder Brother reminded him brusquely. “And so have you, now.”

“Fuck your vows,” He spat, “and fuck mine.” _Keep her safe,_ came the sneer in his head, _be selfless in the pursuit._ _What a laugh._

“Sandor, I do not _condone_ your behavior,” the other man replied impatiently. “But if you tell it true, _her_ choices must be taken into consideration as well; it seems she’s made a lot of them lately.”

“Don’t you speak of her like this is her fault,” Sandor snapped, unappreciative of the jest in his tone.

“Of course it’s not her _fault_ ,” Elder Brother waved him off irritably. “I only wish to hear her thoughts on this matter, and then we shall let her decide how to proceed. I will not have this go unaddressed, and she deserves to know of our intentions.”

After that, Sandor was instructed to wait as he fetched the girl, leaving him to ferment in his turmoil. He felt at such a loss, he almost prayed to the Crone for guidance. Sandor hadn’t slept well last night, warring with himself over whether to make this confession or not. Presently, he found it to be a mistake. Elder Brother was still going to give him exactly what he wanted.

He regretted coming here first, rather than have an honest discussion with the girl. He’d owed her that. Instead, he’d avoided her entirely, too craven and ashamed to face her. He’d even been absent at meals, too revolted by himself to leave his cloister. He’d attempted to calm himself by carving wood, but each time he tried, he ended up using too much force and hacking it into splinters instead.

How many other men had she kissed, to make her kiss like _that_ _?_ It made a chill go through him. The entire event had lost its savor; _what little it had to start with_.

Not only had he contributed to her violations...did she have any idea what she’d done to _him?_ What she likely saw as tying up a loose end, to Sandor it was opening a door that would take all his strength to close again.

He ceased his pacing as the door to the Hermit’s Hole swung open, Elder Brother stepping aside to see Sansa through the threshold. She looked as apprehensive as Sandor felt. _She thinks we're_ _in trouble_ , he realized.

He hated himself for the thundering in his chest as she took notice of him standing there, his face uncovered. She had not flinched both times she’d revealed him, it was true; nonetheless, it surely wasn’t a pleasing sight in any context, especially this one. _What must she think of me now?_ She clearly hadn’t expected him to be standing there, in any case.

“Please, take a seat,” Elder Brother instructed to them both. Sandor obeyed, and Sansa sat opposite him, while their mediator took the seat at the head of the long table. The girl’s mind was working fast, clearly trying to figure out how to respond before anything was said.

“Sandor came to me this afternoon with some interesting developments,” Elder Brother began, speaking to Sansa. “I would have the truth from you, my lady.”

Sansa’s eyes met his—the look of guilt matching how he felt—before turning to Elder Brother. “I...” She started, trying to find the words. “I am so deeply sorry for my behavior, Elder Brother. You clothe me, feed me, and shelter me...and I repay you by showing disrespect to your holy vows. Please, do not punish him for what I did. It was I who sinned, so it is I who should bear the consequences.” She looked at her hands before adding, “Just...please don’t send me back.”

“It is not punishment I mean to discuss, nor retribution I seek.” Elder Brother said gently. “I wouldn’t dream of sending you back, Stone or Stark. The truth I would have of you is not of your actions, but of your motivations.”

Sansa looked up at him, biting her lip. Sandor noted that she was avoiding his eyes now.

“I cannot justify my actions,” she said softly, “I can only beg forgiveness for them.”

Sandor snorted. He brought his hands up to sign his thoughts on that, although he couldn't speak to his reasoning. He supposed that he had become so accustomed to speaking to her in this way, that it felt unnatural to speak aloud just now. He was mindful of the words she didn't know, spelling them out. _'You are not the one who needs beg for buggering forgiveness_ _,'_   his movements were waspish and snappy. _'This whole thing is folly.'_

Elder Brother frowned at him. “Sandor, please, keep your thoughts to yourself,” he chided. Sandor sneered at him, but obeyed.

Turning back to Sansa, he asked, “I beg you to speak truly, my lady, for it will matter greatly. What is this man to you?”

The girl looked like a deer at arrow-point by the question. Sandor himself suddenly felt like an intruder on this conversation; although he would be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t interested in what her answer might be.

“He’s...” her eyes darted to his, and then away, back to her hands. “everything. Everything that’s left.” she said it in a whisper, but the word echoed loudly in Sandor’s ears. _Everything_.

 _No, little bird, that's_ _what you are to me._ It didn’t work the other way around; she had much more potential than that.

She continued, her blush deepening. “I have lost all who were dear to me, or I thought I had. When I discovered the Hound to be among you...I didn’t feel so alone. I behaved with consideration to none but my own desires, and for that I must again express my regrets.”

_Desires._

Sandor knew what the next words out of Elder Brother’s mouth would be, for he’d said them enough times to the point of being tiresome.

“The Hound is dead,” he corrected her. “He died at the Trident, my Lady." Sansa blinked, looking up at Sandor as though seeing him for the first time. He shrugged in response, irritated by her expression.

 _'There’s still plenty to hate about what’s left,'_ He put in. Elder Brother ignored him.

“I don’t wish for you to express regret on my account, or his.” he went on. “If you will it, I mean to send him with you when you leave us, as your escort and shield. But _only_ if you will it, my lady.”

Sansa was entirely floored by that information, but it was Sandor who gave reply. _'Go ahead, choose between two evils,'_ he gestured with clenched teeth. _'Go with a dog or go on your own, they’re both unfair.'_

“Sandor, I will ask you to leave,” Elder Brother warned. “You’ve said your piece, I would have Lady Stark speak hers.”

 _'Get on with it, then,'_ his mouth twitched as he looked at Sansa. _'But spare us the apologies, girl. You don’t owe us shit, or the_ _Gods for that matter.'_

Elder Brother gave him a familiar look of disdain about his foul language. Sandor didn’t care. “Go on, child,” Elder Brother encouraged her.

Sansa was deep in thought, trying to sort out what she wanted to say. After a moment, she asked, “What about his vows?” her expression was that of concern. “Are you sending him away because he broke his vows?”

Elder Brother sighed, but he looked amused as he shook his head. “Try as I may, it seems I could never convince Sandor to swear any such vows,” he explained. Her eyes widened at that. “He follows our rules, serves his penitence, shares in our worship...but as you surely know, Sandor is a willful man. In truth, it seems to me that the Gods had other plans for him, only it wasn’t clear to me until now.”

Sandor scoffed at that, but the glare Elder Brother shot at him made him think better of making comment. He already knew where he could shove the will of the Gods. _She spares me, T_ _he Red God spares me, now the Seven-Faced God does._  He looked intently at the girl across from him, and he wasn’t sure what to make of her expression now, as she addressed him directly.

“What is your choice on this matter?” she asked. “You seem content here...I would not have you abandon this place on my account.”

Sandor looked over to Elder Brother, his expression mocking. _Am I allowed to put in now?_ it asked.

“You’ve been addressed,” he waved a hand as though he was a bothersome gnat, “answer the girl.”

Sandor leaned forward and stared at her, no longer able to keep his silence. He grinned to see her small jolt of surprise when he opened his mouth to speak aloud. _Did she forget how unpleasant it is to hear this voice?_

“Always the courteous little bird, aren't you? Always worrying after what everyone else will think.” He laughed softly. _Perhaps she has not changed entirely._ “It's no matter, I'll tell it true: the only thing I ever abandoned and regretted it was _you,_ girl. You know what I’d choose. But that’s not what’s being asked, is it? Bugger all to what everyone else wants. Be selfish.” _Like the hungry little wolf in the ragged wedding dress,_ he thought. _The one that gulped stew and didn't care who saw it dripping_ _down_ _her chin_ _._

She chewed her lip, but kept his gaze. “I already made my choice when I saw who you were. That hasn’t changed.”

Elder Brother looked pleased, but Sandor frowned, his heart sinking. It was everything he’d ever wanted to hear, yet he couldn’t bring himself to trust her decision-making abilities. _This_ _is_ _a tainted choice._

“You’re desperate for familiarity, nothing more.” his tone was harsh. “What would your _choice_ be if any Starks were around to run to instead?” _If I weren't the last man alive?_

Sansa returned his frown. “I would be happier for it,” she admitted, lifting her chin. “but my choice would be the same.”

“Open your eyes, then,” he rasped, his tone menacing, imploring her to fear him again. That was easier, and less confusing besides. “What if I had decided not to stop at _kissing_ yesterday?”

“Enough,” Elder Brother snapped, but Sansa didn’t take her eyes off him. _She does not fear you._

“I’m faster than you, unless you’ve forgotten." She said coolly, albeit unsettled by the comment. “My eyes are more open than they’ve ever been. You said once that you’d never hurt me. Is that not still the case?”

“Aye, I’d never hurt you,” he confessed, leaning back in his seat again. _Not again._ “But I’m no saint, either.”

“Good.” Sansa replied brusquely. “I’ll have no need of saints, just as I’ll have no need of knights. It was the Hound’s wrath I feared, not the man’s ferocity. _Should_ I have a need to fear you now? Is the Hound truly dead?”

Sandor almost preferred not being allowed to speak. Although Elder Brother didn't interrupt, his eyes on him made him feel teamed up on all the same. It almost felt like betrayal. _Isn't he supposed to be_ my _brother?_

“Dead, aye.” came his churlish reply. “But a dog still.”

“You told me the story of your house once,” she replied emphatically. “Hounds are hunters, but dogs are loyal. And in my experience, both are far more noble than lions.”

Sandor looked away, but said nothing. Somewhere along the way, the girl had grown a spine, forged from steel; but she had lost none of her sincerity. He had more nasty comebacks for her, but they stuck in his throat. He lost his drive to change her mind.

 _It_ _’_ _s_ your _mind that_ _’_ _s been changed, dog._ And mayhaps it was. She was determined to see him as a better man than he was. As he looked at her, he decided that he would try his bloody damnedest to live up to it, if this farce was to truly become a reality.

“The matter is settled, then.” Elder Brother spoke up, breaking the tension that had built up in the room. “Sandor has already begun making preparations, I believe. Now it needs to be decided where you would go, and when.”

The three of them deliberated over those points for over an hour.

Sandor first insisted on Winterfell, the obvious choice. Sansa argued that she would be expected there _because_ it was obvious. Sandor countered that they could gather allies on the journey, before Elder Brother informed the both of them that the North was still too divided and war-torn for that plan to be a certainty, and Sandor was just as much an outlaw as Sansa besides. The Northerners wouldn’t warm to him easily, and would probably assume the worst about his intentions with the last remaining Stark. He couldn’t blame them.

Sansa suggested the Wall, but Sandor wouldn’t hear of it. The Wall is nothing but rapers and cravens, he’d asserted. That offended Sansa, who reminded him that her half-brother had been a brother of the Night’s Watch. Sandor didn’t miss the past-tense, but didn’t pursue the topic. In any case, Elder Brother turned down the idea as well, saying that the Wall was also a place of turmoil and therefore unsafe. Sansa seemed to know this already, despite it being her idea.

The Riverlands were too blooded, Bear Island too uncertain, and Clegane’s Keep too close to the Lannisters—and, to Sandor’s dismay, handed over to another lord in the absence of both its masters. Elder Brother informed them that the war would continue to get worse before it got better, with the Dragon Queen now upon them, last seen far in the North. It was only a matter of time before she turned her sights to the South.

Even if any of those options were viable, however, they couldn’t ignore the distance they would have to travel to reach any of them. It would be arduous enough in Summer, but with the snows so high and the temperatures so low at night, their chances at surviving the journey were slim indeed, especially without being able to risk sleeping in Inns.

Finally, Elder Brother had a solution. “There is no place safe for you on this side of the world, it seems; at least, not now. Luckily for us, the world is divided into two halves. I would sooner send you across the Narrow Sea, to Braavos.”

Neither of them could argue, although leaving the continent altogether made them both weary. However, Sandor had to admit he would be glad to be out of the way of Dragonfire. He did not wish to be around when the Dragon cunt did make her descent.

They could board a ship from Saltpans, which would minimize their need to travel on foot, as it was so close by. From there, the hard part would be keeping their identities secret until they reached the free city, where they would find work for themselves and keep their heads low. There was the added benefit that the East did not see such harsh Winters as the West.

Once it was decided, Elder Brother let Sansa know that he meant to send them off at the first sign of a search party, or once the snows died down, whichever came first. Sansa surprised them both when she replied that she would sooner go before it came to that.

“I would have a head start on them if I could,” she’d said. “If we were caught unaware, and I was discovered here, they would put this place to the torch. I wouldn’t risk it.”

So it was decided. They would take a week to prepare, then head out for Saltpans. Elder Brother would provide them with enough coin to gain passage, and a little extra to get them on their feet. Sandor would remain in his brown-and-dun robes until they reached Braavos, and Sansa would need make herself a set of robes, for she would be posing as a Silent Sister. This would limit their need to speak with anything but their coin, and since most could not speak the hand-language, they wouldn’t bother to ask too many questions of them.

Sandor felt uneasy about the ruse; for every ten men who respected a holy man, there was one that would make a target of him. Without a sword, they would be vulnerable. They would have to spend as little time among the other passengers as possible, and Sandor would need to spend this week practicing his skills at sparring. Elder Brother agreed that he would help.

 _And I'l_ _l have to get some steel in-hand first thing when we get there,_ he thought.

The whole ordeal would be a risk, but he had to admit that it was far less risky than their other options. Even so, the fact that it was now happening so soon—that it was happening at all, that everything was so _definitive_ —was what put him ill at ease most of all.

However, if he were _truly_ honest with himself, he was looking forward to the journey.


	14. Sansa 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How humble and sincere this man was, while simultaneously so strong and fierce. _This is the kind of man I wish to fill Winterfell with someday._

The week spent preparing for their voyage had kept them so busy, they barely had time to take meals. One of the brothers was a skilled artist, so he drew Sansa the likeness of the robes the Silent Sisters wore, so that she could make them. She decided on making three sets; the travel by sea could take a month, or longer if the winds weren't in their favor.

She took to her task at the mouth of the stables; from there, she could watch Sandor and Elder Brother practice at sparring in the space in front, where they kept it clear of snow to exercise the mules. It was distracting at times, the ferocity with which they came at each other. She almost forgot that Elder Brother was a knight once, although his stature and his build were frequent reminders. He always seemed so kind and gentle, though...she never would suspect him of possessing such brutality, not still.

Nonetheless, it was Sandor who she watched most closely. At first, Elder Brother had been a match for him. He was of a height with Sandor, although none could match his broadness. Elder Brother would send him sprawling, or otherwise force him to yield. Sansa couldn't suss out whether a prolonged lack of practice made him clumsy, or if perhaps he was holding back.

On the third day, however, it was Elder Brother who was catching his breath after being slammed to the ground. Sansa had stood and cheered for the victory, unable to conceal her bias. After that, something seemed to click for Sandor, for he never let Elder Brother best him again.

 _Distracting indeed._  Sansa was fast at needlework, however. On the fourth afternoon, she had finished, and on the fifth she could dedicate her full attention to watching them.

She couldn't believe it was actually happening. She was going to cross the Narrow Sea, and she wouldn't be going alone. It felt too good to be true, and sometimes that gave her pause. For as excited as she was to make the voyage, she felt equally as apprehensive; would new evils await them in Braavos? There was no way to know for certain, but she felt safer knowing Sandor Clegane would be with her. She trusted him more than any other. She could speak her mind to him without fear, and he could touch her without setting her skin to crawling. Whatever the future had in store, she felt optimistic about her chances at facing it.  _The world is dangerous, but with him I feel safe._ The Gods were  _good_.

In turn, she felt slightly nervous about the proximity and seclusion she would have with her escort. She had kissed him, even had thoughts of more than that…how would that color their interactions? He had certainly made no moves to repeat the act, and neither had she, but she could tell he wanted to.  _So do you,_ Myranda teased. _The Hound is dead, after all..._

But it was more than a distant fantasy now, or a last-chance to act on or regret later…he was  _really_  coming with her. Would  _actually_  be around in the future. There was no realistic space for him, not in that capacity. She would do well not to lead him into believing there was.  _Or yourself, for that matter._  She decided she would keep him at arm's length, but wouldn't be cold about it, either. They could be friends, and friends were comfortable with each other. She liked that thought. _If I wouldn't behave a certain way around close friends, I won't behave that way around him._

There were other tasks to take care of before they would be prepared to take their leave. Stranger still needed more experience with his snowshoes, and they deliberated over and over again whether to bring him on board the ship to Braavos at all. In the end, Sandor won out over Elder Brother, refusing to leave his horse behind. He argued that he would be useful once they got to Braavos, and he was confident he could keep him calm on the ship. Sansa was not so confident, for the horse barely kept his calm with snowshoes strapped at his feet. How would he fare in cramped, rocking quarters for a month? She knew the decision wasn't a pragmatic one, but she supported it anyway.  _I wouldn_ _'_ _t have left Lady behind either, no matter what, if she were here._

When they set out for Saltpans, Sandor would have to walk beside the horse, for he would be too heavy to ride in the snow. He looked just as unhappy in his snowshoes as his horse did, and it amused Sansa to watch. He no longer wore his dun-and-brown robes while he trained, and he spoke more freely now, but he never said anything when he spied her holding back a laugh at his expense. Sometimes he would sign something at her with a sour look on his face—she knew them to be foul words, although he'd never taught her the gestures—and it only made it harder not to laugh. Sometimes, Sansa thought she saw his mouth twitch into a smile with her.

It was also decided that Sansa would need to re-dye her hair, for there could still be men who meant her harm across the Narrow Sea. She had decided on black this time rather than the muddy brown of Alayne. She wouldn't be using that name anymore, so she shouldn't use that color. Black had been the color of Jon's hair, as well as her companion's. It would take some getting used to, but she felt it suited her better. Sandor didn't like it, and told her she looked more like one of Robert's bastards than anything else. He only preferred her natural color, she knew.

Today was their last day before they were to head out. Elder Brother had hosted a midday feast in their honor, although it was the quietest feast Sansa had ever attended. Afterwards, they were all gathered in the sept to pray for safe passage. Sansa made her personal farewells to all the brothers individually, thanking them for their kindness and generosity with her. It was hardest to say goodbye to brother Brandon, the only one whom she revealed her true identity to. He had wept when she told him. When she came to him to say her final good-bye, he gifted her a lemon cake in the shape of a wolf, signing to her,  _'_ _The North remembers_ _'_. She made sure to initiate one last snowball fight with him, wanting that last memory to be more cheerful.

Elder Brother arranged to have a private dinner together on that last day, where he'd implored her to at long last reveal what had happened to her. Sansa had finally confronted the memories on her own, but still felt uneasy about relating them to another. She knew she could trust this man, but even so, her truths were never spoken so freely in her life. When they were, there were always consequences. It took all her strength and all his encouragement to gather her accounts, beginning with Joffrey's wedding. He never interrupted her while she spoke, and soothed her as she cried. She understood now, the effects confessions must have had on the men who dwelled here. She felt lighter, in a way. She knew her secrets would never leave this room, and it gave her comfort as well.

The Elder Brother had been shocked to learn what she had done to Littlefinger, but assured her she had done the right thing. "You displayed a great deal of mercy, to only mark him rather than kill him." he'd told her. "Sandor has told me much of this virtue in you; I am pleased to know he didn't exaggerate."

She asked him what else he said about her, genuinely curious. Elder Brother had laughed at that. "That would require more time than we have, sweet lady," he said, "and confessions are a private matter besides."

They would be leaving at first light on the morrow, and it was late by the time she rose to leave the Hermit's Hole. Elder Brother rose with her, taking her hands in his.

"Keep faith, child," He said solemnly. "You still have friends in this world, even if you aren't aware of them. When you return, you may not find the world a better place than when you left it. But war doesn't last forever, and there will be a need of people like you for it to heal properly."

Sansa felt touched by his words. "First I will have to heal myself," she said sadly. "I hope your faith in me won't go misplaced."

"It rarely is," he assured her. "I believe the worst is behind you now, but there will still be challenges ahead. I assure you, you will not face them alone."

"I know," Sansa smiled, thinking of Sandor Clegane. "I can't thank you enough for all you've done for me, truly."

"To aid the helpless, and to bring faith to the hopeless, is to serve the Gods," the man said, clasping his hands together. "I would do it again, and only wish I could do more."

"I shall miss you, Elder Brother." Sansa said, meaning it. How humble and sincere this man was, while simultaneously so strong and fierce.  _This is the kind of man I wish to fill Winterfell with someday._

The man chuckled as he replied, "This is not a farewell, my lady; we will meet again. I am sure of it." He pulled her to him, and she hugged him tightly. She had only just begun to warm to the Elder Brother in earnest this last week; leaving so soon was bittersweet, but she felt it was the right time to go.

"You may find some lemons in Braavos," he said softly, patting her on the back. "But lemon trees do not grow there. Remember that."

When at last she left the Hermit's Hole, Sansa started on her way towards the women's cottages. She should sleep, she knew, but she didn't feel tired; her mind was galloping along full speed ahead, even as her limbs grew heavy. The anticipation for the journey before her was too great for sleep. She wondered if her companion faced the same dilemma, and it was with that thought that she turned towards the stable block instead.

The howling cut through the night air, never ending. As she wrapped her cloak more tightly about herself, Sansa wondered if the wolves could sense the prospect of a meal preparing to depart the Quiet Isle. She shivered at the thought. Surely that wasn't how her story ended? She was a wolf, after all, and wolves did not eat their own. She willed herself to believe that, to draw courage from it. To keep  _faith_.

He was there when she reached the stables, as she sensed he might be. He was rising from the empty stall next to Stranger, but did not take notice of her standing there. He went to the stallion, taking his face in his hands.

"We're getting out of here," he murmured somberly to the beast. In response, Stranger snorted, and the man laughed low in his throat. "Truly, this time. You'll see."

Sansa had the absurd sensation that she was intruding on a private moment. He spoke with a tenderness to this animal that she'd never heard in him when speaking to a person. She was smiling when he turned to leave, and took notice of her standing there.

He appeared surprised, but only for an instant. As he approached, he rasped, "Shouldn't you be in bed, little bird?"

"Shouldn't you?" She pointed out. He inclined his head, amused.

"Aye, I suppose I should," he conceded. "Just making sure we're ready."

"Are we?" she asked, looking up at his uncovered face. He kept his hair parted predominantly over the burned half, but mostly kept it brushed out of his eyes. Presently, both were glinting in the moonlight as he stared down at her, his brow furrowed.

"Are  _you_?"

Sansa bit her lip. He still wasn't convinced she wanted this, she knew.  _But I also know there's plenty of time to convince him._

"I am," she said firmly. "Restless, but ready."

His mouth twitched. "You'll regret it on the morrow, with no warm bed to sleep in," he reminded her, as his breath came out in thick clouds; hers came out in wisps. "Come, I'll walk you back."

He started forward, and Sansa reached out for his arm to stop him. "Wait," she said, hesitant. He obeyed, turning back to face her. "Could you just...sit with me, for awhile?"

Sandor Clegane considered her thoughtfully for a moment. Then, wordlessly, he went to the nearest stall and lowered himself to sit against it, patting the ground beside him.

Sansa gave a small smile and joined him there, drawing her knees up to her chest. He sat with his forearms draped over his.

They sat in silence for a few moments, but it wasn't uncomfortable. The howling and the soft nickering in the stables was enough to provide a soothing backdrop. She looked up at him; his unburnt half faced her, but it was also cast in silhouette against the light of the moon beyond. It was hard to make out his expression.

"We won't be able to speak so freely, once we're on the ship." She sighed, resting her head against his shoulder. He glanced down at her.

"Aye, and your ears will be happier for it," he mused. His whole body emanated heat, and rumbled when he spoke. Sansa found it to be soothing.

"Tell me a story," she requested, yawning. "A nice one." He snorted.

"I don't know many of those, little bird." he murmured, his voice like boots on gravel. He leaned his head back against the stable door.

"The story of your house, then." she offered, the faint sound of howling persisting through the cold night air. "The dogs in the Autumn grass. That one's nice."

He hesitated for a moment. Then, he raised the arm she leaned against, draping it over her shoulders instead and drawing her to him. Laughing softly at her gasp, he began to recite the story. Sansa's eyes slid closed, listening as he warmed her. It wasn't a long story, but she didn't recall hearing the end of it. The last memory she had before sleep overtook her in earnest was the feeling of strong arms as they lowered her into bed.

That night, she dreamed she made her bed in Autumn grass. A howling lullaby swirled through the wind as she lie there, naming all the stars. He even joined her there, after a time. He did not help her name them, but he did hold her close and stroke her hair, until the sun came up and the stars were lost once more. When Sansa awoke, she made a desperate plea to the Gods—the Old and the New—to give her the strength and wisdom to stay on the right path. _Wherever it leads._


	15. Sandor 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Are you ready?" she asked, muffled beneath her cowl.
> 
> _Nothing could prepare me for this,_ he wanted to say. _But nothing could make me abandon you now._

Elder Brother and the little bird were already waiting at the docks when Sandor arrived with Stranger, saddled up and in his snowshoes. A sled dragged behind, bearing their supplies for the journey. It would offset the weight and thus lower the risk of a collapse in the deep snows.

Every step he took was another step closer to the real world that lay beyond. The closer he got, the more intense his anxiety became, the harder each step became. Was he ready?  _Truly_  ready?

"Good morrow," Elder Brother greeted as he came into earshot. Sandor nodded an acknowledgement before coming to a stop before them.

Underneath her thick fur cloak, Sansa was clad in Silent Sister's robes, her face already covered. Sandor was back in his dun-and-brown ones as well. Her eyes  _smiled_  when she saw him; he would never understand it. His did as well, he knew.

It would take all day for them to reach Saltpans, but they couldn't be too careful. In addition to donning their disguises, they would be camping tonight just outside the city, rather than take up residence in an inn. They needed to save their coin, and Sandor wanted to spend as little time as possible around prying eyes before they boarded the ship. They still ran the risk of being recognized, especially Sandor himself. He was the one accused of raiding the place, after all; they were not like to be welcoming of men his size.

It was the early hours of the morning and still dark outside. Not that the sun would be much use once it did rise, for how constantly it snowed. Elder Brother approached him and clapped a hand to his shoulder.

"Be careful, Sandor," he said solemnly. "And be well."

Sandor opened his mouth to flout him, but it stuck in his throat. It occurred to him that this may be the last time he would see this man again; he who had saved his life, heard his confessions, healed his wounds...and so much more.  _Given me a purpose. The only true brother I ever knew, in truth._ Sandor felt a powerful sense of gratitude overtake him, for this religious fool who had given him everything he didn't deserve. He pulled the man into a rough embrace, clapping him on the back.

"Thank you," he said quietly in his ear. "For everything."

Elder Brother returned the gesture. "Keep her  _safe_ ," he replied in equally low tones. "And stay on the path."

He broke the hug quickly and a little awkwardly, but Elder Brother looked pleased. He turned to Sansa then, taking her face in his hands. "You are stronger than you know, child. Until we meet again, I shall keep you in my prayers. May the Gods guide you home." He kissed her on the top of her covered head, and gestured for them to board the ferry that was waiting for them at the end of the dock.

"Let us not waste time," he said, "You have a long journey ahead."

They did as they were bid. Brother Randall was there to receive them, and Sandor had to yank Stranger's reins to keep him from snapping. It was the strangest feeling, stepping from solid land to the rocking surface of the deck. He looked back at Elder Brother, who would remain at the docks until they reached the other side.

He could turn back now, he knew. He still had a chance, could walk off this boat and back to familiar ground, to remain there until he was truly ready. This was  _madness_. Could this really be happening?  _Should_  it? Sansa Stark was the key to the North; how could he be the one trusted with such responsibility? Just because he felt a different man, it didn't make him a  _good_  man. All of the preparations made over the last week felt suddenly pointless, every lesson he'd ever learned was suddenly forgotten. 

He was on the edge of panic when felt a pressure at his left arm—half-numb with the angry burns he bore there—and looked down to see the girl standing at his side, squeezing it lightly. He felt himself relax, then, as though she were drawing his fear from him like poison from a snake bite.

"Are you ready?" she asked, muffled beneath her cowl.

_Nothing could prepare me for this,_  he wanted to say.  _But nothing could make me abandon you now_.

He gave her a short nod, and looked back up to where Elder Brother stood as the ferry lurched into motion, his stomach lurching with it.

"Don't be afraid," she whispered reassuringly, feeling him stiffen once more.  _Easier said than done,_ he thought contemptuously. Why wasn't  _she_  afraid?

Stranger threw his head beside him, and Sandor welcomed the distraction. He spent the ride soothing the animal, which in turn soothed his own nerves, if only temporarily. She stood with her hands gripping the rail, watching the Isle grow smaller.

When they reached the other side, Sandor guided the beast onto solid ground once more. He had to dig out another ramp for Stranger to climb, as he had done before on the Isle. Once he was sure they could make it, he lifted Sansa up onto the horse's back and strapped on snowshoes for himself. He took one look back at the Quiet Isle. He could barely make it out through all the snow, but he saw the faint shape of Elder Brother still standing at the docks, waving goodbye. Sandor could see the windmill spinning slowly beyond, the towering outline of the Sept. Such a small place, with such a moronic purpose...yet he had gained so much there. He had been healed, transformed, and accepted there. He had learned a myriad of new skills, to make up for the ones he wasn't using. Had formed new habits, to replace the old ones. He had _brothers_.

Sandor resisted the urge to wave back to Elder Brother before he set off through the trees, and turned his back on him instead. It would seem he had something more important than a brother now; something he was still trying to articulate.

It was queer, walking through the forest like this. The trees were all buried at their trunks, some of them almost buried entirely, their branches sticking up through the snow. He could easily reach the tops of many of them at this height.

The howling was louder than it had been before, but it wasn't the wind.  _Wolves._ Sandor had taken notice of this days ago, but could not say when the shift in source occurred. Either way, it put him on guard. They had no weapons to protect themselves with, save for a small carving knife, and the idea of dying that way made him uneasy. He had to ask himself again if they had been wise to leave at all, before it was necessary.

Sansa seemed to sense his disquiet, for she said, "They won't hurt us."

Sandor barked out a laugh. "You think they care what your sigil is, girl? We're all just meat to them."

"I just know it," she said simply. "Men are the ones we should fear, not the wolves."

"It would be wiser to fear them both," Sandor murmured.

They were silent for a long while after that, and Sandor concentrated on his footing as he guided them through the thick trees and snow. Progress was slow, but navigating was easy, for all they need do is stay within sight of the shoreline until they saw the lights of the town. It left Sandor to let his mind wander to other things, such as the night before. She had been just as restless as he had felt, although she'd drifted off quickly enough. He'd watched her sleep there for a time before returning her to bed. She looked so peaceful, with moonlight shining in her newly dyed hair. She'd drooled upon his chest, he remembered, but she even did  _that_  prettily.

She had sought him out, for comfort of all things. Would it always be like that? Would she continue to seek him out for stories, and sleep so easily at his side? He couldn't tell if the idea terrified him or thrilled him.

After a while, Sansa began to squirm uncomfortably in the saddle. Sandor stopped the horse to look up at her.

"You need to make water, girl?" He asked bluntly. She reddened.

"I...yes," she admitted, looking anywhere but at him. He snorted.

"Say so next time," he said, walking to retrieve a pair of snowshoes. "Unless you want to piss the saddle, that is." He laughed at the abashed look in her eyes as he strapped the shoes to her and lowered her to the ground.

"Go on, I'll wait here," he instructed, and watched as she made for the trees; her bowlegged gait with the unfamiliar footwear brought tears of mirth to his eyes. Once she was out of sight, he turned his back on her and leaned against the horse, picking at his fingernails to pass the time.

A few minutes had passed when he heard her cry out.

"Sandor!"

He jerked his head around. She was still out of his sight, and he noticed how silent the forest had become; even the wolves had ceased their howling. He felt fear rend at his heart as he hurried forward, towards the sound of her voice. She called out for him again.

"I'm coming!" he growled. He cursed the snow, cursed his leg, cursed her  _buggering bladder_. Cursed himself for letting her stray away this far.

When he reached her, he felt relief wash over him to see she was still alone, unharmed. It immediately gave way to frustration.

"Seven buggering hells, girl," he seethed through clenched teeth.  _"what is it?_ "

She was pointing to something sticking out of the snow. "Look," she instructed, her eyes wide.

Sandor did look. At a glance, it didn't seem like anything special; just a black shape protruding from the snow. He would have never noticed it had she not been pointing at it. He approached the object, and as he did, it took shape: a hand.

"Poor bastard," he muttered, nudging it with the toe of his shoe. "Probably scores of them under there, scattered about."

Sansa looked up at him. "Can we dig him up?" she asked, as though requesting a drink of water. Sandor gaped at her.

"Don't tell me you want to give him a proper burial?" he replied, incredulous.

Sansa let out a frustrated sigh. "No, of course not. I want to see who sent him."

The realization dawned on him then.  _This could be one of her hunters._  He instructed her to wait there while he fetched the horse, and returned moments later with Stranger at his side. He tied the reins to a nearby branch, although he trusted the horse not to run off, and retrieved the spade from the sled.

It didn't take long to uncover the gruesome corpse, and Sandor kept his back to Sansa in an attempt to keep her eyes off it.

"Poor bastard," Sandor repeated as he looked down at him, although he felt no pity. His throat had been mutilated, the face rendered unrecognizable for all the teeth marks in it, revealing the skull underneath. The blood had long ago frozen and turned black, along with his skin. The stench was familiar to Sandor, although that didn't make it any sweeter.

"What is it?" Sansa asked tentatively from behind.

"Your precious wolves got him, seems like," he grunted as he yanked the corpse the rest of the way out of the snow, revealing a breastplate emblazoned with a crescent moon and falcon across the front.

"And they might be your friends after all," he remarked, raising his eyebrows.

She stepped forward to get a glimpse, and Sandor put out an arm to halt her. "Not a pretty sight for pretty eyes," he warned, narrowing his own eyes at her.

Sansa looked up at him defiantly. "I've seen dead men before."

_Have it your way then,_ he thought with his mouth twitching, stepping aside wordlessly. She went forward and stooped over the body, revulsion in her eyes.  _She looks a proper Silent Sister,_ Sandor mused as he watched her inspect the dead man with his arms crossed over his chest.

"The Gods are good," she whispered, tracing the sigil over the breastplate. "and  _so_  cruel." Then she looked up at him. "Do you think this is why no one's come looking for me?"

Sandor shrugged. "Could be. Wolves have to eat too. I'd rather not stick around and find out if they play favorites, though."

Sansa nodded and stood, and it was Sandor's turn to crouch down over the body. He was loath to leave the sword strapped to the man behind, but knew he wouldn't have a way to hide it among their things, especially if they were searched. He did, however, spy a dagger at his hip. He took it, thinking it was better than no protection at all, as well as a small yet fat coinpurse.

"Off we get," he said roughly, standing and making his way back to Stranger. Sansa followed, already raising her arms for him to lift her up. Once she was back in the saddle and the snowshoes off her feet, they set off again.

"I wonder how many men we would have found down there," she pondered aloud as they walked. "How many parties he sent out that never came back...how many he let die like that..."

"Who?" Sandor blurted out, the topic unexpectedly striking a nerve. Sansa was silent, and he looked up at her. He'd been careful not to press her for information she didn't want to freely give, but his patience was beginning to run thin. He wanted the truth. He wanted to  _know_.

" _Who?_ _"_  he asked again, a little forcefully this time. She flinched, but said nothing.

Softening slightly, he sighed. She might seek his comforts, but it was only for the sake of safety. He was her shield, not someone to confide in. It made him bitter, but only half so much as it made him somber.  _She's right not to trust you, dog._

"Nevermind, little bird. Tell me if we need to stop again."

They continued on in silence for a time, and Sandor could tell the girl was just as lost in her thoughts as he was. They stopped a few more times—to eat and to relieve themselves, for they drank wine steadily as they went to keep warm—but they were never stopped for long. Sandor's hands and face were numb with cold, and covered in snow, but he didn't wish to waste time. Moreover, he had the unshakable sensation that they were being watched. He wasn't keen on staying in one place for too long, to find out if his paranoia had any merit.

The sun was setting before either of them spoke again. "We're getting close," Sandor's voice was hoarse as he pointed through the trees. Through the haze, he could make out the faint light of the town ahead. "We'll go a little further and make camp."

Sansa's face lit up at that, and the tension from the day's ride seemed to lift. "I see it!" she exclaimed, leaning forward to get a better look. She was eager to get out of the saddle, Sandor knew, although she hadn't complained once throughout the day.

They would have to carve a shelter out of the snow, and having a fire would be too risky. "It's going to be a cold night," he informed her. She didn't seem to mind. _Yet._

Sandor made another ramp for his horse to walk down to the riverbank, and tethered him to a tree that would provide him with enough shelter from the snow for the night. He lowered Sansa to the ground and freed himself of his snowshoes, before going to the sled to retrieve the shovel once more. Sansa set herself to brushing and blanketing the horse while he dug out a makeshift cave in the snow big enough for them both to fit in. It was fully dark by the time he finished, and he stepped back to look it all over. It wouldn't be much, but it would be enough for the night.

Sansa joined him at his side and nodded her approval. Turning to him, she said, "I thank you for all you've done today; you must be exhausted."

She wasn't wrong. Sandor's legs ached from all the walking, especially his left. Having not slept much the night before, he was like to pass out the moment he sat down. He didn't like the thought of that; the howling was back.

"It's been a long day for us both," he muttered, gesturing for her to lead the way inside. She went in and sat down, and Sandor followed, seating himself on the opposite side of the cave from her.

"This is nice," she lied, shivering. Sandor had lined the inside with furs and blankets to lay upon, but they would only be a small comfort against the cold. He decided on sleeping upright tonight, hoping it would prevent him from sleeping too deeply. He kept the dagger sheathed behind his back.

Crossing his arms over his chest and lowering his hood over his eyes, Sandor settled into the blankets. "You'll have a proper bed to sleep in come tomorrow. 'Til then, think warm thoughts."

He heard her shifting around across from him, presumably laying down. "Winterfell had natural hot springs, did you know?" she asked. Sandor grunted in reply, nodding.

"You could keep warm in the castle without needing to light a fire, even on the coldest nights," she continued with a sigh, remembering. "The hot water ran through the walls, as blood does through veins...it was always so warm..."

Sandor lifted his eyes from beneath his hood to gaze at her through the darkness. Her eyes were glittering, but Sandor was more concerned by the shivering. Her lips were probably bluer than her eyes. Without the sun, and with their proximity to the water, it was bitter cold.  _I'm twice her size, and I'm freezing my own arse off._ He ground his teeth, indecisive. Should he warm her, and contend with the discomfort of proximity? Or leave her alone to freeze all night?  _My comfort or hers._

"Here, girl," he beckoned her over, opening up the blankets he was wrapped in. "I won't have you freezing to death while I watch."

She sat up, but made no move to come over. "I'm all right," she insisted, her voice quivering slightly for all her shivering. "I did this before, for l-longer."

Sandor laughed, his breath coming out in white plumes before him. "It wasn't near so cold then, little bird. You can keep your pride  _and_  keep warm, I won't tell anyone." He beckoned her again, more impatiently this time. "We'll both sleep easier for it."

Tentatively, she rose, draped in her furs and blankets. "Bring all of it," he instructed her, pointing to the furs still covering the ground. She obeyed and walked over, and although he couldn't make it out in the darkness, he knew she was blushing.

She had slept near him twice now, but those times hadn't been intentional.  _And I was awake._  It occurred to him that this might be a little more intimate than she was prepared for.  _She didn_ _'_ _t seem to have that problem when she kissed me,_  he mused, mouth twitching. He couldn't blame her for regretting it, however.  _It_ _'_ _s not like this is any more comfortable for me, either._

He took her by the wrist and guided her gently down onto his lap. "I won't touch you," he assured her.

"I know," she replied softly, unflinching yet demure.

"Just try to keep warm." Sandor wrapped the blankets over them both, linking his arms over the thick bundle. Her shaking lessened considerably, and she allowed herself to relax, burying her face into his chest.

"I'm...sorry, about today," she said after a time, rousing Sandor from half-sleep. "I will tell you...but only once we're on the ship. I promise."

Sandor snorted. She knew before he did, that if she had given him a name, he just might have turned Stranger up towards the Vale rather than stay on their course. "Don't ever apologize to me, girl. You were wise not to tell me."

She made no reply, but to wrap her arms about his middle and squirm around to find a comfortable position in which to lay.  _How the sweet fuck am I supposed to sleep like this?_

"How are you so warm?" She asked, voice already thick with exhaustion.

"I weigh more than a little bird, for starters," Sandor remarked with laughter low in his throat. Sobering, he added, "And I'm never cold, in dreams."

"Why?"

Sandor pulled the hood back down over his eyes and rested his head against the cave wall. "Because I always dream of fire. Go to sleep now, girl."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 ends tomorrow! Sorry this is getting published so late. I am very insecure about these last chapters especially!
> 
> I really hope it's been a great read so far, everyone! Your reviews have made this so worthwhile and rewarding—THANK YOU! You've really made my foray back into fanfiction a great experience.


	16. Sansa 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In her own nightmares, reality was more abstract or exaggerated, as dreams tended to be. His, however, seemed to be reliving the events exactly as they happened in reality. _As though it is already the worst possible version._

Sansa awoke in darkness, and it took her a moment to realize where she was. She had dreamt of him again, her heart still hammering rapidly with the intensity of it.

It had been the night the Blackwater burned. Instead of finding him in her chambers, however, she found herself standing out on the battlefield, in the middle of the action. She stood there, taking it in, bewildered by the violence of it all. She had never seen it for herself in reality, but it felt so  _real_ , it was as if she had.

There were bleeding men sobbing for their mothers, wounded men gasping for life as they tried in vain to pull their entrails back in, burning men howling themselves raw, finding no relief in the water, for it too burned.  _Everything_ burned. Everything was green, and loud, and terrible. Sansa walked through the carnage in a daze, no one seeming to notice her as they fought and died and screamed all around her. The world was cast in a ghoulish green glow, making her eyes burn with the brightness of it as much as the heat. Her eyes were wide with horror and brimming with boiling tears, a mere spectator to so much suffering. She wasn't aware she was dreaming at the time, but also had the queer sensation that this couldn't quite be reality, either.

She spied the familiar snarling helm of the Hound as he staggered out of the fray, frenzied and howling. His armor had caught fire, his streaming white cloak stained and bloody, also on fire. He threw himself against the nearest wall to smother the flames. Once they were out, he drove his battered sword into the ground and leaned upon the pommel, resting his head on his hands, heaving in a desperate attempt to breathe. Sansa approached him slowly, having eyes only for this particular warrior. He wouldn't be able to see her, but she would go to him all the same.

When she reached him, she noticed the left ear of his helm had been hacked clean off, and was dented everywhere else. She could see exposed skin on his upper left arm where the fire had made it through his armor, burning him there. Sansa reached out, wondering if she would be able to touch him, or if she was like a ghost in this world. When her hand made contact with his shoulder—careful not to touch the wound—she jumped back as his head snapped up, already drawing his sword out of the ground to make an attack, his eyes wide and white like a cornered animal.

He  _saw_  her, and the incomprehension on his face mirrored her own as—thankfully—he slowly lowered the sword. Through the mouth of the helm, Sansa could see his face was white as milk on one side, and an open wound above his left eye oozed blood down his burned half. "You shouldn't be here," he growled, his voice raw and shaking.

"Neither should you," Sansa replied softly, stunned.

"You're not real," he was shaking his head, as though trying to shake her out of his sight. He threw his sword to the ground forcefully and stalked off. "I'm fucking done."

Sansa had to run to catch up with him, but waited until they were further from the battle—and the fire—before she reached out for him again. The contact caused him to lash out, nearly striking her in the face as he swung his arm out to shake her off. He spun around to face her again, ready to fight. He seemed surprised, even fearful, to see her still standing there, having taken her for a foe.

 _He thinks he's hallucinating,_  she realized.  _Maybe he is._  Nobody else seemed to notice her.

Sansa went to him, reaching out for him a third time. He flinched but made no move to stop her, seeming to be frozen in either panic or disbelief. She went up on her toes as she took his helm into both hands and lifted it over his head. Once it was off, she let it fall to the dirt with a dull clang.

"You're all right now," she said, imploring him to believe her. She reached up with trembling fingers and cupped his face, much as she remembered doing in her chambers in another reality. This time, however, she wasn't afraid for her life; she was afraid for his.

His face contorted in misery and agony as he sank to his knees, drawing her greedily to him, hugging her at the waist like a child clinging to his mother as he began to sob.

Sansa's own vision swam with tears as she hugged his head to her, his hair damp from sweat. Even on his knees, Sandor Clegane was nearly of a height with herself, the top of his head coming to the base of her neck. His left side was pressed to her, making her chest slick with his blood. It was repulsive, although Sansa hadn't felt repulsed.

"You're all right," she repeated, stroking his hair. His grip on her tightened, so hard she felt short of breath.

"Don't leave me," he sobbed into the flat of her chest, "Please..."

Sansa felt the tears escaping down her own cheeks as she lifted his head to meet her eyes. She'd never seen any person look so wild, so vulnerable and afraid.  _Not in such stark relief, anyway._

"I'm here," she whispered, at a loss for how else to calm him. The heat of the blazing battlefield was at her back, getting closer, reflecting in his eyes; they didn't seem able to focus on anything else. She began to hum a soft lullaby, obscuring his view of the fire with her body. He was melting in her hands when Sansa pressed her lips to his brow, her eyes sliding closed as his did. Everything suddenly became silent, as the darkness swallowed her up.

When she opened her eyes again, Sansa was awake once more. The ground beneath her was rising and falling, rumbling steadily in time with the sound of soft snores above her head. She quickly remembered where she was laying—or, more precisely, who she was laying on—and her initial waking feelings were of compassion for him. The dream had been terrible. If he had experienced even half of what her imagination had fabricated…

"No," she heard him mutter between snores. Sansa lifted her eyes up and pulled the blankets from overhead to look at him. A rush of cold air met her, but not nearly so cold as last night. Dim light filled the cave; the sun was rising. The weight upon her waist was his arm, she could see. The other was hanging limply at his side. He was slack with sleep beneath the hood, but not peaceful. It occurred to Sansa that she'd never seen him in such a state before. It was oddly...humanizing.

The wool over his mouth twitched as he opened it, sucking in a deep breath. "Don't...leave..." he let out another soft snore. "Me..."

Sansa blinked, disoriented.  _Am I still dreaming? Or could it be that I was sharing in_ his _dream?_  No, that was absurd. But...it would explain how  _vividly_  she had experienced it, how he alone had been able to see her…she suddenly felt afraid for him once more.  _Rational or no._

Sitting up, Sansa pressed her hands into his chest and gently shook him. She could feel his heart pounding in his chest, as hers had. "Wake up," she insisted, "Wake up, Wake up, Wa—"

His eyes flew open as he jolted awake, and for a fraction of a second they had that wild look to them again. When comprehension dawned on him, he relaxed somewhat, but his expression was haunted. "Everything all right?" he asked, looking around.

"You were having a nightmare," she told him.

"No shit," he rasped, still groggy. He hastily rubbed at his eyes before turning them on her. "Did I wake you?"

Sansa shook her head, but he took notice of the expression in her eyes. She must have seemed worried, and perhaps a part of her was. What did this _mean? Did I make it up, just like the kiss?_

"Is there anything you  _won't_  distress over?" he asked irritably, nudging her lightly so he could rise. "They're just dreams." Sansa blushed as she crawled off him, also getting to her feet.

 _It wasn't just a dream,_ she wanted to say.  _I was there, I saw what you saw._ It felt too absurd to say aloud, just as much as it sounded in her head. He would only mock her, she knew. She wanted to prove it to him, but she wanted to prove it to herself first; if it was just a coincidence, she would rather him not know she'd dreamt of him at all.

"We'd better get moving," he cut through her thoughts, standing at the mouth of the cave. "The ships will set sail once the sun's up the rest of the way."

Sansa only nodded, and they packed up in silence, although Sansa's inner council was enough to fill the void, chiming in at every thought. In her own nightmares, reality was more abstract or exaggerated, as dreams tended to be. His, however, seemed to be reliving the events exactly as they happened in reality.  _As though it is already the worst possible version._

She blinked, turning her gaze over to where he stood, tending to Stranger under the tree. The stallion was pawing and fidgeting this morning, restive. There was a definite edge to the air that put Sansa on alert for herself. The hairs at the back of her neck were on end, although she could not say why. Something was just...strange. Different, in a way. Even the air smelled peculiar, the wind blew on a changed course. The sounds of nature buzzed just  _slightly_  offbeat. Did he notice it, too?

Or was it just her inner septa, scolding her for sleeping so closely to a man the night previous? The fact that she worried more after the dream than the reality was not lost on her. She didn't care, however.  _When I was on my own, I would have slept next to Joffrey if it meant keeping warm._  She knew her mind was doing some fine footwork, to justify the fact that she had enjoyed comforts that went beyond warmth.

As her eyes fell back to her task, she spied some unusual impressions at the mouth of the cave. She moved closer on her hands and knees to inspect them, and cupped a hand to her covered mouth when she recognized them.  _Paw prints._  They were  _massive_ , however, far larger than she would expect of a wolf.  _But they're undeniably canine._  She called her companion over to look at them with her, and he bent over them, staring in silence for a long moment.

"The sooner we're out of here, the better," he said gruffly as he rose, although he looked disturbed. "Stranger's in a fit this morning, no bleeding wonder."

The prints didn't disturb Sansa, however.  _it didn't hurt us,_  she thought.  _It could have, but it didn't._  She didn't say it, and had no logical explanation for it, but she was sure the prints belonged to a direwolf. She wished she could scoop the print out of the snow and take it with her, as she traced her fingers gingerly over its shape, hoping to commit it to memory.  _This is what Lady's paw would look like by now, surely._ She had to take deep breaths to maintain her composure.

They finished packing up. Sandor left the sled behind, leaving a few things they wouldn't need with it. He strapped the rest to the horse's back and lifted her into the saddle, and they were off.

It didn't take long to reach the town. When they did, they found it bustling with people and far busier than Sansa would have expected it to be, this early in the day.  _Everyone_  was awake and outdoors this morning, it seemed, even babes and children. No one gave the two of them a second glance as they passed through the buzzing crowd. They were making straight for the docks, not wasting any time becoming acquainted with this place. They weren't the only ones; it seemed as though most people were desperate to board a ship to somewhere.  _Anywhere but here._

Just as it did at the camp, something felt  _odd_. It was more intense here, and Sandor seemed to notice it too, for his movements were rigid as he quickened their pace.

She tapped him on the shoulder. _'What is it?'_ she signed when he looked up.

 _'Listen,'_ he replied, tapping the side of his head before turning his eyes forward once more.

Sansa strained her ears, trying to isolate individual voices among the crowd. Then, she started to hear.

"...Completely destroyed..."

"...reduced to rubble and ash..."

"...Dragonfire..."

"...But it was green..."

"...The Imp..."

"...The entire city..."

"...everyone dead..."

"...Huge and green, just like the fire…"

"…The Imp was riding it!"

Sansa felt her stomach twist into knots as she tried to put it all together. She looked down, her eyes wide; Sandor was watching her.  _'King's Landing is gone,'_ he signed. _'Burned. Your husband.'_  He had a wicked look in his eyes. Revulsion, mixed with his brand of cynical humor.

She was dazed and horrified for herself. Sansa hated the capital, had wished it destroyed many times out of spite.  _But not like this._  How many people had died in the attack? Thousands, to be sure; there couldn't have been time to evacuate if it was indeed an attack. Could it be true, though? Could Tyrion do such a thing?  _Her husband._  Was he still? Would it matter one way or the other? The High Septon was surely dead now, after all…

What would happen if he found her? Would she be hunted by more than Littlefinger now? Or were his wife's whereabouts too small a matter to concern himself with?  _Surely, if he's destroyed the capital, he has no interest in conquering._ What would Winterfell mean to such a man? He did not love her personally.

Would he even care about the lives he'd ended, how gruesome their ends had surely been? Sansa had a hard time believing it; Tyrion was a Lannister, but he had been kind, in his own way. Surely this was an overblown rumor, just as the Hound pillaging Saltpans had been. Mayhaps dragons had indeed descended upon the capital, but without the devastation being described all around her.

These people seemed to believe it, though, and were desperate to flee before they met the same fate.

They stood in the queue for a time as they waited to board the ship. When they finally reached the front, a burly Braavosi man was waiting to search them and take their payment.

"It'll be extra for the horse,  _holy man_ ," he sneered up at Sandor, "And you have to clean up after it."

Her companion only nodded, shoving a coinpurse into his hands in reply. The man took it, looking inside and giving it an approving nod. "You'll be sharing a room with others, we're taking on extra passengers," he informed them.

Sandor shook his head irritably, giving him the coinpurse he'd taken off the corpse, although Sansa knew he had kept at least half the gold in his pocket.

"Nevermind, then," replied the man with a phlegmy laugh, taking the extra payment with a greedy expression. Sansa felt suddenly guilty; their privacy meant denying passage to others who might need it. It wasn't the right thing to do, but she had to admit it was the smart thing to do. They could not risk being seen without their face coverings in such tight quarters. The more privacy they had, the better.

The burly man checked their things to make sure there was nothing amiss before rushing them along onto the ship. Sansa looked back, at all the people trying to board different ships to anywhere but here. She felt a stab of grief for a mother who was being dragged off, wailing as her children boarded an adjacent ship without her, unable to afford passage for herself.

She couldn't  _wait_  to set sail. Everything was miserable here, and cold, and she was hunted besides. Even if all of Westeros pursued her, she would soon be far enough out of their reach that it would take them some time to locate her, let alone find her person. It gave her some measure of comfort. _And I'm not alone._ He wouldn't let anyone else take her. He would see her through, or she would die clinging to him.

Stranger tried to throw his head, but Sandor yanked it down, cursing him under his breath. The ship to Braavos had reached capacity shortly after they came aboard, for the burly man appeared on the deck to draw up the ramp.

Soon after that, the ship lurched into motion as Sandor lead them below deck to stable the horse. There were only a few small stalls with straw covering the floor; it would be cramped, but it would have to do. Sansa slid out of the saddle on her own, as Sandor had to keep the reins tight in hand, murmuring soothing words as he tried to coax the frightened horse into an open stall. It was no good. Stranger thrashed wildly, half-rearing and screaming, requiring all of his master's strength to hold him. It was too dark, too cramped, and too undulant for the beast to abide.

Sansa fidgeted nervously. The stallion was like to hurt himself in his frenzy, or one of them. She only knew of one way to gentle angry beasts; looking around to be sure they were alone, she came forward—careful to stay out of range of his wrath—and, tentatively, began to sing The Song of the Seven. Half a lullaby, half a prayer. The song she had hummed in her dream.

Sandor looked down at her standing beside him, distracted by the sudden intrusion.  _He recognizes it,_ she realized. It seemed to have the same effect on Stranger, however, for he ceased his screaming while she sang, and her voice grew more confident for it. She was three verses in before Sandor tore his eyes from her and, taking advantage of the brief calm, lead the horse into the stall and bolted the door behind him, panting as he turned to watch her once more. Sansa stepped forward to the stable door as she sang, and took Stranger's face in her hands, smiling at him. She could see the whites of his eyes still, but he made no move to bite.

" _The Seven Gods who made us all,_

_are listening if we should call._

_So close your eyes, you shall not fall,_

_they see you, little children._

_Just close your eyes, you shall not fall,_

_they see you, little children…"_

Her voice trailed off as the song ended; Sansa drew down her cowl and stood up on her toes to kiss Stranger between the eyes before backing away. The stallion looked as though he was like to start his thrashing again as she did so, but there wasn't enough headroom for him to do much. He settled finally, although he still shuffled around with his ears at half mast, nickering rebelliously. Sandor ignored it entirely, however, having eyes only for her.

Walking over, he put a finger under her chin and inclined her head sharply up, his own tilted slightly to the side. For a fleeting moment, Sansa thought he meant to kiss her, for he had pulled his wool scarf down. When she would ponder on it later, she decided that perhaps it wasn't so outlandish an assumption to make after all. 

"Thank you," he said with his words.

 _I love you,_  he said with his voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONGRATULATIONS, you have reached the end of Part 1! It's been a really great experience so far; THANK YOU to everyone who has read and/or reviewed this story so far. And if you hate where I take things (or don't take things?) in Part II, I really hope this ending will suffice as a good stopping point for you ;)
> 
> And of course, here's a huge thank-you to my beta, Holly, who has been so encouraging to me as I write this story. She's also been so, so helpful in planning the future! She always lets me bounce ideas off her, and always has good ideas to bounce back. ILY.
> 
> I have a good portion of Part 2 written/mapped out so far (30 total chapters in!), and I'm really hoping I can finish this story before I get caught up with myself in updates! LOL. I have some life-stuff happening right now, though, and have considered the idea of not posting any updates in September just because I don't know how consistent/online I'll be over the next month (I'm moving, taking a vacation, and running a 5K next month!). Don't take that as gospel though; I really honestly don't know how long I will wait before starting in on Part II updates, or how sporadic they will be. 
> 
> HOWEVER: I am so open to interacting with you guys, and hope anyone who enjoys this story joins me over on the sandy-salsa Tumblr, where my ask box is always open! :) If you have questions about the story that you'd like me to answer, or just want to talk SanSan, I am so here for you. 
> 
> Okay, sorry for the long note, guys! I swear I won't make it a habit! Cheers!


	17. Sandor 9 (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He felt useless; he wanted to _do_ something, but all he could manage was fury. It was too late for action besides. Sandor didn't know how to be comforting; nothing felt more insincere than forced sincerity. No soothing words could fix what had been done to her, and his anger would only frighten her. _What good are you, dog?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOO, sorry it took so long to update! I've been stripped down to mobile-only communications, between being out of town and moving to a new place. I'm actually posting this update on the DL from work (after hours!!), but the next chapter might not come until I have sweet, sweet internet again. But, I figured you all have waited long enough!
> 
> Your reviews have been so overwhelmingly encouraging and sweet, thank you so so much to everyone who has taken the time! Please keep them coming, because validation is the only thing that helps me sleep at night!

The sleeping quarters were cramped, but it was to be expected. Sandor closed the door behind them and dropped their bags to the floor, scanning the room. It didn't take long. A washtub and a straw pallet were the only adornments, and the only light came from a tiny porthole. It smelled strongly of the sea and mildew. Everything felt wet, even the air. The constant swaying was nauseating. _Mayhaps the snow wasn’t so terrible after all._

“At least we won’t freeze to death,” Sandor muttered, already beginning to unpack. It was beginning to sink in just how isolated they would be for so long, and it unsettled him. He'd nearly lost sight of his senses below deck, only moments into the voyage.

How was he supposed to do this for a month?

Sansa had crossed the room to peer out of the window. “It's perfect,” she said quietly, thinking aloud more than speaking to him directly. Even with her face covered, she was beautiful. Her eyes were unfocused, staring not at the sea but inside herself.

“What's on your mind, girl?” He couldn't stop himself from asking.

She turned slowly to look at him; her expression was hard to read, but there was an intensity to it that gave Sandor pause. Then, she seemed to snap out of it, as though slipping on a mask.

“Might we go above deck? Fresh air would be most welcome.”

Sandor agreed; the stench was oppressive down here. _'No talking,'_ he reminded her before reaching for the door. She nodded, securing the wrappings around her head.

Once above deck, they found a place to sit and Sandor went to fetch a cask of wine. The ship was bustling with passengers, mostly common folk who were fleeing the destruction that dragonfire had brought upon the realm. _A realm that doesn't give two shits if they live or die, so long as someone gets to rule the ashes._ Sandor didn't blame them one bit; he might just have fled himself, Stark girl or no, had Elder Brother told him anything about dragons.  Sandor had enough of fire for one lifetime; he was glad to have his back on it. The dreams were enough.

He still couldn't believe what he was hearing all around him, however; was the capital truly reduced to rubble, as they said? It gave him a strange satisfaction to think of the throne being reduced to a molten pile of metal, after all the lives that had been lost in pursuit of it. Sandor wouldn't put it past the Imp, although the thought of him trying to mount a dragon almost made him laugh; he could barely sit a horse. It was likely just an overblown rumor, but his hatred for the twisted little monster was enough for him to buy into it all the same. He was approached by desperate people seeking a holy man’s comforts, but he shrugged them all off irritably. He wore the costume, but he was no mummer, and was not inclined to play the part any more than necessary.

Sandor's mind wandered back to his dream from last night. He had dreamt of the little bird again, except this time it was on the battlefield itself, when he'd first made the decision to desert. It was only a dream, but it seemed to him the girl was looking at him differently now. Had he spoken while he slept? Or was he merely imagining it?

She was transfixed on the water again when he returned with the wine. Sandor found a barrel and set the cask and two cups down on it, pouring one for himself. Fresh water was a luxury on this ship; he would have to be careful with his pacing. That, too, was a state he would rather she not see him in again.

She signed her thanks as he poured for her, lowering the cowl enough to drink. Her entire face contorted in disgust when it touched her lips, but she swallowed it down dutifully. Sandor breathed heavily from his nose in amusement.

_'Closer to piss than wine,'_ he agreed, taking a seat.

_'What will we do when we get to Braavos?'_ she asked, fumbling slightly and slow, still having to spell out words more often than not. Sandor shrugged.

_'Work. Stay out of trouble, if we can.'_

_'What work?'_

He hadn't given it much thought, in truth; Sandor wasn't sure what to expect once they reached the free city, though he assumed there was always work to be done, no matter where in the world you were. He only knew one thing for certain: _'Don't care, so long as you're in my sight'_

_'What will we tell people?'_ she asked next. _'How we know each other?'_

Sandor shrugged again, irritably this time. _'Daughter, maybe,'_ he suggested, gesturing to where her now-black hair would be if it weren't covered up. Her face contorted again, though she hadn’t taken a drink.

_'No.'_ she signed. _'No more fathers.'_

_'Choose, then,'_ he replied, inclining his cup to her before he drank. _It makes no bloody difference to me._

She drank too; deeply, and with less disgust this time. _'Husb_ — _?'_

Sandor nearly choked before she could finish spelling it out. _Seven Hells._ Coughing, he returned, _'No. No more husbands for you.'_

_'I don't want to play at family,'_ she signed, a stubborn look on her face.

_'Choose, then,'_ he repeated. _‘Something else’_

They glared at each other for a brief time before she looked away, her mind buzzing thoughtfully. After some deliberation, she seemed to have an idea. _'Family friend. Of my father's,'_ she offered. _'He died in the attack. You protect me now.'_

Sandor considered that, drinking again. _'That could work,'_ he finally conceded. It would be close enough to the truth that it would be easy to remember. _'And what will you be calling yourself once we get there, I wonder?'_

She already had an answer prepared for that. He thought she might. _'Nedra'_

He could have laughed. If there was such a thing as an afterlife, that headless bastard surely was. _‘It will serve.’_

_'You?'_

_'Don't know. Don't care'_

Sansa narrowed her eyes at him. _‘You have to choose.’_

Sandor took a deep breath and swallowed his frustration. She wasn’t wrong, yet there was a moon's turn between now and when they would need to concern themselves with such details. It didn’t take him long, however, to come up with a suggestion. _‘Conor.’_

She seemed pleased by that. _‘After your father?’_

He nodded.

They spent the rest of the afternoon above deck, draining and refilling cups of wine and going over more words of the hand language. The more they drank, the less she learned; but she laughed more, and that was just as well. It was getting dark by the time they rose to retreat below deck. Sandor took the cask and held out an arm, the little bird eagerly grasping onto it. She’d had quite a thirst, and it wouldn't do for a Silent Sister to be seen stumbling drunk above deck.

Once they were safely below deck, Sandor led her over to the pallet bed and tossed a blanket over her. He went to the opposite side of the room and began making his own bed out of the furs they had brought along, when Sansa sat up, throwing the blankets off herself in a huff.

“It's not time to sleep yet, is it?” She asked, pulling the coverings away from her face. She’d said it quietly, but Sandor snapped at her to lower her voice all the same. It wouldn't do to be overheard should someone pass by their room.

He sat heavily against the wall, trying to ignore the movement of the ship beneath him. “I don't care what you do, little bird, but that's what I mean to do.”

“You don't have to sleep on the floor,” She said as she watched him remove his own face covering. Sandor laughed under his breath.

“I suppose I don't,” he agreed. “But I want to.” He settled down into the blankets, stomach churning.

He heard the familiar shifting sound as she rose from the pallet bed and padded over to where he lay. Sandor cracked opened one eye as she knelt down next to him. “I think I'm ready to tell you now,” she said, eyes glassy and cheeks flushed. Sandor propped himself up on his elbows.

“You're drunk,” he pointed out brusquely.

“So?” She snapped. “It'll be easier.”

He couldn’t argue with that, and didn’t have the stomach to. “Chirp away then, little bird.”

She hesitated, biting her lip. “When I do tell you...please, don't get angry.”

In its own way, the request itself made him angry. If it needed such a preamble, she was asking him to make a promise he couldn’t keep. _'I'll try,'_ he signed, sitting up in earnest and leaning against the wall. Sandor learned long ago how to channel his rage into his hands and keep his mouth shut; it seemed to work much of the time. Even still, he could feel the faint levity of drink begin to leave him.

She seemed to accept that, for she shifted into a more comfortable position and began. “That night, when the Blackwater burned and you offered to take me home. I refused you because I was afraid...and because I had already gotten that offer from someone else.” Sandor raised his eyebrows, but didn't interrupt.

“He had left me a note under my pillow, said to meet him in the Godswood if I wanted to go home...” She looked disgusted by the memory. “My _Florian.”_

_Him_ , Sandor noted. _Her Florian._ He was thinking back to every man in King’s Landing, and couldn’t think of a soul who would have helped her, could have warranted that comparison. “Who was he?” He finally asked, though it came out more as a demand.

“Ser Dontos,” she answered quietly.

Sandor barked out a laugh, forgetting for a moment where they were and who they were pretending to be. “That _disgraced fool_ is who you were with this whole time?” he asked incredulously, lowering himself to a whisper once more. “I thought he could barely walk up stairs, let alone cook up schemes.”

“You're right,” Sansa agreed, unamused. “I was the fool, in truth. I believed him...I was naive and desperate...I thought he might save me, as I had saved him. He only meant to sell me.”

The scathing tone in her voice was enough to sober him. “He never got his payment,” she continued. “He was killed once the exchange was made. I had to watch him die...I've had to watch so many die...”

“Who bought you?” It came out as a growl.

The girl’s expression was forged from steel. “The same man who killed John Arryn. The same man who killed Joffrey. The same man who killed Dontos, and my aunt Lysa, and Harry and Sweetrobin...and countless others, I'm certain. He rarely does the deed directly...he's a clever man. _Evil_ , but clever...”

Sandor felt his blood boiling. “And what did he do to _you_?” The others didn’t matter.

Sansa took a breath. “It was innocent enough, at first; I was almost happy, even. I took care of Sweetrobin and had friends, I learned how to lie and negotiate and run a castle. I was out of the reach of my enemies; I had no enemies, for I was just the bastard Alayne, and my father wasn't dead,  _he_ was my father. I almost felt free...but it was just another cage. A bigger cage, but a cage still.”

Sandor watched her as she gathered the strength to go on, her eyes wet with tears as much as the drink now, but she fought them back. He handed her the cask from the deck. “Here, girl.”

She took a modest sip from it before setting it down again. “I was a tool, used to get what he wanted; that's all I ever was. He would have me believe he loved me, as he loved my lady mother. He wanted her as well, you know. But it wasn’t _love_. It was the same for me. I don't think Petyr Baelish ever truly knew the meaning of love.” She lifted her eyes to meet his.

Sandor barely saw her; he had heard the name, and all he saw was red. He wanted to rage, to break something. _Like he broke her._

_“Littlefinger?”_ He snarled, speaking through clenched teeth in an effort to keep his voice down. “ _Littlefinger_ is...who did... _this_...to you?”

Sansa nodded, eyes streaming. His body seemed to respond before he could think of any words, and before he knew it his fist was driven into the nearest wall with all his might, making her jump.

“St-stop it!” Sansa cried out, taking his fist in both of her hands before he could strike again. “They'll hear us. Please...” she hiccupped.

His first instinct was to shake her off, but then he saw her; _truly_ saw her. Moonlight streamed in through the porthole, illuminating the fear in her eyes. He frowned, but took a deep breath and forced himself to be still as she ran trembling fingers over his throbbing knuckles. He felt useless; he wanted to _do_ something, but all he could manage was fury. Sandor didn’t know how to be comforting; nothing felt more insincere than forced sincerity. No soothing words could fix what had been done to her, and his anger only frightened her. _What good are you, dog?_

“You're always stuck with the worst,” He murmured, shaking his head. “Joffrey, the Imp, Littlefinger...and now, _me_.”

“Not you,” She whispered. “I _chose_ you.”

Sandor felt a twist in his stomach that wasn't entirely from the nausea. _And now she’s the one comforting you,_ the voice in his head sneered.

Sandor snatched his hand away and found the wine cask. “Did he hurt you?” _Of course he did._ But he wanted to hear it. Of all the people in the world, she had named the one person worse than the Imp. _I should have warned her. I should have told her..._

“Yes,” She replied, still whispering. “But I hurt him, too. Remember when I told you my father had a scarred face?”

Sandor gave a rasping laugh. Of course he remembered. He remembered all her lies. _Pretty little lies from a pretty little bird._ “If you made him look like me, you'll have done him a world of shame; good on you, girl.”

Sansa moved forward again and took his face in her hands. Sandor recoiled, revolted for her. “You didn’t deserve this.” Her drunkenness only made her _more_ sincere, not less. “ _He did._ I didn't make it out without my own scars...but I did come out with my dignity, and my virtue. And I’ve never felt safer than I do now.”

Sandor could feel her fingers inching closer to exposed bone, and pulled the hand away. “Tell me the rest, little bird,” he said in a voice like sawdust.

Sansa snatched the cask out of his hand, drinking from it more boldly this time. She took a deep, shuddering breath. She told him everything, from start to finish. She told him about Alayne, about Lysa and Sweetrobin and Harry the Heir. She told him about Myranda Royce, Mya Stone, Ser Lothor Brune. He learned about Marillion and the Targaryen Prince, culminating in the attempt on her Maidenhead the night she was meant to wed again. It had taken some convincing before he believed the Imp had left her in tact to begin with. She described in detail her fight and flight from Littlefinger’s clutches, how she had split his face in two.

“You should've split his throat in two while you were at it,” he snarled.

“Death isn't always the answer,” she said in a brittle voice. 

“It was when he conspired to kill your true father,” He spat, remembering the day Littlefinger had aided in seizing Ned Stark, a knife at his throat. He regretted it immediately, for tears began to spill out of her eyes at that disclosure.

“I should have told you,” he muttered. “Sooner.”

“I should have known,” she whispered.

“He will answer for it one day, mark me,” Sandor promised, lifting her chin to look at him. “And everything else. Now, tell me how you managed it. All of it. You couldn’t have cut all the men who put hands on you.” _How did you evade the Imp?_

Sandor remembered when the Imp had been married the first time; the tale of how he ended it made his skin crawl, even still. Lannister men had japed about it for weeks, until Tywin put an end to it. He had given a barracks full of men a turn on the girl, taking her for himself last. She had never been seen or heard of again after that. Whether he killed her or ran her out of town, it made no matter. _She's as good as dead either way._ He had always been a lustful, whoring little creature, even without the rape. Between the Imp and Littlefinger—one living a life in whorehouses and the other living a life running them—how had Sansa met any other fate?

She was blushing. “Tyrion wanted…started to…but I didn’t want to, and in the end, he respected my wishes.” Sandor scoffed at that, but she ignored him. ‘Respect’ didn’t belong in the same sentence with Tyrion Lannister.

“Harry was easy to fool once I got him in his cups—most men are, I've learned—and I cut my thigh on our wedding night to make him believe it. Littlefinger...he stole countless kisses, and tried to use his poison on me, but I made _him_ drink it in the end. He couldn't move while I cut him, but he could feel it. It was what he wanted to do to me.” She looked revolted.

Sandor felt equal parts horrified and relieved by her recollections. A part of him had died when he heard the news of her first marriage…a fate worse even than himself, or death, to his mind. She had faced much more vile monsters since then, yet she had made it out—not unscathed, having still endured worse abuse than she could ever deserve—but she never gave them what they wanted, either. She fought back, in whatever ways she could.

“I'm proud of you, Sansa Stark,” He told her. It was overwhelming, how much he meant it. “You hear me? When this world chews you up, it breaks its teeth.” He admired her for that, truth be told. He couldn’t say the same for himself. He had tried so hard to break her spirit before the world did, for he always believed it was the only way to survive. She was unbreakable, however. _And still here._

Sansa smiled through tears, leaning forward and kissing him lightly on the cheek. He had to fight every muscle in his body to not kiss her back.

“Time for bed now, little bird.”

They lay on opposite sides of the room, and it took a long while before sleep found either of them. When it did, Sandor dreamt he slept at her side, stroking her auburn hair and reassuring her that no one would ever lay unwanted hands on her again. In his dream, she told him the only hands she wanted were his. Ignorant in that abstract reality of dreams, he almost believed her.


	18. Sansa 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She had ceased thinking him ugly long ago, but when exactly had she begun to find herself so... _drawn_...to this man?

“Come on, I'll lead!”

“Not a fucking chance,” he growled, shaking his arm roughly from her grip. “Put a barrel of wine in me, I’ll  _ think _ about it.”

Sansa had never been denied a dance before, but she was determined to charm him. “You afraid?” She asked with a wicked smile.

“That won't work on me, little bird,” he scolded her, but his eyes betrayed him. Her grin widened as she went forward and took his hands in hers, tugging at him to follow. He stubbornly stood his ground.

“There's no one else here,” she complained, “There's no need to be timid.”

He opened his mouth to call her a liar, but when he looked around, he saw she had the truth of it. Moments before, they had been standing in a great hall packed with other revelers, dancing and singing and laughing from all around them. Now the hall was void of all people, although the music still played from some unknown source. Sansa laughed at the confusion on his face.

“ _ Dance _ with me,” she insisted, pulling him forward again. Reluctantly, he took a step. It was all she needed; she placed one of his hands at her waist and kept the other in her own as she walked backward, and this time, he followed.

She was dressed splendidly in a gown made of silk and samite, her hair spilling over her shoulders in elegant curls, with the top half swept back in intricate braids. He, on the other hand, wore simple clothing with his hair hanging in his eyes, looking quite himself and out of place; he hadn’t thought to change his attire with the scenery.  _ He isn’t aware that he can. _

His steps were clumsy while Sansa lead them around and around, his brow furrowed in frustration and his eyes fixed on the floor. “Look up at me,” she instructed, giggling. “Follow my movements intuitively.”

He brought his great head up, and Sansa beamed. Looking into his eyes, she pressed her hand into his shoulder to signal when she meant to turn them, and tilted her own shoulders to signal her steps. After a time, he began to pick up on the hints, and soon after they were dancing in earnest, spinning around and around. He didn't even need to be cued when it came time for him to twirl her. She knew all the steps, all he needed to do was read her. He appeared sheepish by the whole thing, but Sansa thought she spied the ghost of a smile there as well.

“You're a better dancer than you think,” she lauded him.

“Spare me,” he snorted.

“Are you not enjoying my company?”

“I’d enjoy it more if I didn't look such a fool,” he muttered, his face close enough that she could see every detail in his burns.

“All men are fools,” she noted with a furtive smile.

“I’m no Florian,” he reminded her sharply. “And I’m no Knight either. You know what I would rather be doing.”

Sansa’s heart fluttered. “Would you? You wake every time you try.”

He couldn’t understand what she meant, so took it as an invitation instead. Sansa braced herself for what would come. The moment his lips met hers, away he went, and down she fell, falling to the floor, falling and falling and falling forever...

Her eyes fluttered open to the dim, dank chambers she shared with Sandor Clegane below deck of the  _ Summer Wind _ . They had been traveling for a fortnight now, and she awoke with a sense of disappointment that had become all too familiar.

Since the night she had dreamt of him at the Blackwater—had discovered that they shared the same dream—she had sought to share more, to prove to herself that it wasn’t imagined. She was now certain it wasn’t. In time, she learned that she had the ability to control them if she could wake herself up; mentally, not physically. She had found him in his dreams many nights now—almost always nightmares—and once she learned she could, she changed them. Sometimes, she would have nightmares too. Those nights were hard, and waking herself up wasn't so easy when the dreams were her own. 

She could control everything in the dreams, except for him. They almost always ended the same: every time he moved to embrace her, he disappeared. She found that she  _ wanted _ him to, and it frustrated her that he wouldn't. Sandor Clegane regarded her in a way Sansa hadn't known since her father was killed: he  _ loved _ her. Truly loved her, without condition or motive. It was more valuable than all the gold in the world.

She knew there would be no acknowledging it in their waking lives, but in dreams? It was harmless enough.  _ Or would be, if he would ever do such a thing,  _ she thought moodily. It changed things slightly. It was much of the reason she didn't admit to him that their dreams were more than mere dreams; if he knew, he might never be so open with her.  _ If he believed me at all. _ The dreams were pleasant, and intimate in a way she would never experience by light of day. If he knew, he would surely spoil it. It would complicate things that needn’t be complicated—or so she told herself.

He never let on that his dreams had changed, but she could see a shift in his demeanor, and could tell he awoke with the same frustration she felt each morning. It was better than the bitterness.  _ And all the fire. _

He had come so close this time. Their lips had touched, and she could still feel the sensation of it as she sat up. He was awake too, staring up at the ceiling. She wanted to go back to sleep, to try again; but it was no good. He was already rising, pulling his hair back as he did each morning before donning his cowl. Sansa reluctantly followed suit, sitting up and braiding her own hair. “How did you sleep?” she asked, as she did every morning.

“Well enough,” he murmured. “I'm going to go below and tend to Stranger. I'll have water drawn up for a bath; call for me when you're finished.”

Sansa nodded her agreement, looking forward to the prospect of a bath. They got one tub of hot seawater every three days to clean themselves with, and he always gave her the first turn.

He ducked out of the room, and Sansa donned her own face coverings as she waited for the water to come. It didn't take long before there was a knock at the door, and she wasted no time once the tub was filled and the men were gone. The hot water soothed her muscles and cleared her mind; she could lay in it all day if she didn't feel the obligation to leave warm water for her companion.

She made sure to wash up quickly so that she could allow herself time to soak. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, smiling as she thought back on the dream. She had convinced him to  _ dance _ with her; it gave her a sense of triumph. She'd been bolder last night than in previous dreams. They were so confined on the ship…she was restless and bored, and it was interesting to test his limits. It had been nice, while it lasted; to dance and laugh without care, and be unreservedly herself. She wondered if she would ever feel that way again in her waking life.

As it was, they barely left their quarters unless they needed to, for Sandor held no trust for their fellow passengers. He brought most of their meals here, for when they  _ did _ eat on the deck, they were bombarded with commoners who wanted to pray with a brother of the Faith. This was as amusing to Sansa as it was irritating to Sandor; as a Silent Sister, she was regarded more warily and given a wider berth. The Silent Sisters primarily prepared the dead for burial, and were often referred to as the Stranger’s wives, or Death’s handmaidens. Most of the passengers wouldn’t even look Sansa in the face. She was prepared for that—many considered it a bad omen to do so—but it was quite isolating. She had never dressed a corpse, but couldn't help wondering if death followed her everywhere she went. _Maybe I'm more suited for the Silent Sisters than I realized.  
_

As such, Sandor usually only left their chamber to tend his horse or fetch necessities. He was glad that the other passengers stayed away from her, and wished they would regard him the same. Sometimes, Sansa would accompany him on his errands, but she preferred solitude to the dread she inspired in others. She didn't have to cover her face here, and it was more enjoyable to learn the hand-language when he could speak while signing. He had made it a habit to sign everything he spoke, and she mimicked him, although she got tripped up in her words sometimes. It was difficult for her to concentrate on both languages at once. In truth, he made it hard to concentrate on  _ anything _ .

Sansa submerged herself under the hot water, not coming up until she couldn't take it anymore. What had possessed her lately? She had ceased thinking him ugly long ago, but when exactly had she begun to find herself so... _drawn_...to this man? Had she become so familiar with him in their seclusion that she forgot what handsome looked like? Or did it simply not matter?

Even without the burns, he was plain at best. She could see that. He had a heavy brow, a hooked nose, a rigid jaw, and—without a razor at his disposal—he had grown whiskers that didn't quite come in on his left side. He only had one ear, and his jaw bone was exposed in one place. He had to part his hair differently to give the illusion that any hair grew there at all, and his leg wound gave him the gait of a man half-crippled. By any standard, he was grotesque to look upon.

And yet... _ and yet, _ she had grown fond of those features, for they were familiar, and unique to him. If given the choice, Sansa doubted she would change a single thing. All things considered, he was still twice as nice to look upon as Tyrion Lannister, and his lips infinitely sweeter than Littlefinger’s, even before she’d quartered them. It wasn't all unsightly besides; his soft dark mane that challenged Stranger's, the ungraceful grace with which he moved, even with the limp. The grey of his eyes, that reminded her of home...

He emanated strength and masculinity, and it appalled Sansa that she felt so stirred by it. He was so massive...Sansa had grown used to being taller than most, even men, but  _ this _ man absolutely dwarfed her. It made her shiver.

And, Gods be good, he was impossibly gentle for all that. Even when he was rough, there was always an underlying restraint, as though she were made of glass and he feared he might break her. He still had a ferocity about him—she had seen it while he sparred with Elder Brother—but she was never the object of it. She wondered if perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if she was.  _ I'm not made of glass, after all.  _ She shivered again.

She couldn't help but think there was something deeper—something neither of them could understand or control—that contributed. The tethered dreams were certainly not normal . What had caused it? Certainly, there was  _ something _ at play; but what? _Who?_ What did it  _ mean _ ? Why him, and why her? When exactly had such a bond been forged? How long had the Gods seen it fit to connect her both physically and mentally to this man? Was this always the plan, was this always the path? Did he have any idea at all? Surely, he must have, even if he wouldn't admit it to himself. He  _ must _ know, in some way.

Once she was dressed, she went down to the lower level to find him. He was in the stall with Stranger, spreading fresh straw along the floor. The horse had taken a week to become accustomed to his new surroundings, but he still had no love for it. He was restless and cooped up; Sansa felt sad for him. As restless as she felt in their small cabin room, Stranger had it worse. She would often sing to him when she was sure no one else was around, for it seemed to calm him as much as it did his master.

Sandor took notice of her as he stood, signing a greeting.

_ 'Your turn,' _ she signed in reply, knowing he could use the bath more than herself, for all the upkeep Stranger required. He brushed off his hands and patted the stallion before exiting the stall. He gave Sansa a pat on the head too, before limping away up the stairs. She smiled, walking over to keep the horse company while she waited for him to bathe. Wash days were the only times she was left alone outside of the room. Sometimes she would go up to the deck and pray, but usually she spent this time with Stranger. He made better company, and she felt safer besides. 

“I’ve added a new verse for you,” she whispered to the horse, stroking his muzzle. “Would you like to hear it?” He nickered softly and she smiled, taking that as approval. Sansa usually sang him the Song of the Seven; it was a pleasant lullaby, and it was the tune that soothed him best. She had been reconsidering the Stranger a lot lately, and she felt it unfair that he wasn’t included in the song. _It can’t be called the Song of the Seven if only six are mentioned, can it?_ It seemed to her that the fear of death had led even the holiest men to ignore it altogether, despite being one of the seven faces of God.  _But why should any of the God's seven aspects be feared?_ Of all of them, the Stranger was the one among them that all men, women, and children would someday know. 

She started the song from the beginning, singing as quietly as possible. Stranger’s head was heavy in her hands, closing his eyes. When she got to the part where the last verse was usually sung, she recited her new verse instead:

“ _ The Stranger guides us to the other side, _

_ Upon his horse all men must ride, _

_ There’s no need to fear, no need to hide, _

_ He won’t harm the little childr— _ “

Sansa cut off abruptly when she heard the sound of heavy footfalls descending the stairs. Stranger snapped his head up as well. It was too soon for it to be Sandor, she knew, and too clumsy besides. It carried none of the familiar rhythm of his gait. It was with that knowledge that she stiffened somewhat, weary about strangers who were not associated with Gods or the stallion standing before her.

Moments later, a filthy, scrawny man stumbled into view.  _ Drunk _ , Sansa thought. Of course he was; all there was to drink was wine, and all there was to do was drink. Taking notice of her, the man gave her a wide grin full of rotten teeth and sauntered towards her. “I thought I heard singin',” he said, tilting his head. “I thought you holy folk didn't do that?”

Sansa wasn't sure how to respond; he wouldn't understand the hand-language as she did. She shook her head, denying it.

He chuckled. “C'mon, sweet sister, don’t be shy; surely you've got more to say than that? Only God out here is the Drowned one.”

Sansa shook her head again, keeping one hand on Stranger's muzzle as he shifted restlessly in his stall. “That your horse?” he asked.

She could smell him from here, the stench of bodily odor and stale vomit assaulting her nostrils. Sansa nodded slowly.  _ Just leave me alone, _ she thought.  _ What do you want? _

“What's a sweet sister like yourself doing with a beast like that?”

Sansa shrugged.  _ What does he expect me to say?  _ The man moved closer.

_ 'No,'  _ Sansa signed, also shaking her head. She gestured to the horse and shook her head vigorously, hoping he would take her meaning.  _ Danger. _

His laughter was like grinding rocks in grease. “It's not the horse I mean to pet.”

Sansa felt her stomach flip over, but she didn't feel afraid.  _ Not with Stranger here. He'll regret it if he comes closer. I won't stop him, either. _

“I came here for some quiet, but it seems the  _ Gods _ have seen it fit to give me something more,” he gushed, coming closer. “Tell me, sweet sister, you may not talk…but can you scream?”

He was close, much too close. She felt pity for him; most of the smallfolk aboard the ship couldn't afford their own rooms, having to sleep on the deck or wherever they could find a space to lay. He was surely such a man; life was unfair for them, she knew.  _ But life isn't fair to anyone; that doesn't make it right to be cruel. _

The man quickened his pace and reached out to grab her, but Sansa's reflexes were sharper, and she backed away out of his grasp. His folly was a certainty now. His proximity to her also brought him in proximity to the great black destrier stabled there, who was already agitated from his restlessness, who never took kindly to others…

The man yowled in agony as Stranger brought his great head forward and tore at the side of his face, ripping an ear off in one go. It didn't go cleanly. Sansa squeezed her eyes shut as blood spattered across her face. The stallion was already poised to strike again, but the man had reeled backwards, clutching the side of his head and screaming. His agony soon gave way to fury, as Sansa thought it might; she plastered herself to the stall door as he came at her again, but this time he had drawn a dagger. She opened her mouth to scream, but he was too drunk to strike first, and Stranger was ready for him: he sunk his teeth into the man’s shoulder and tore at it viciously.

He let out an ear-splitting howl, and Stranger lifted him bodily from the floor, thrashing him about as though he were filled with straw. Blood went everywhere, but Sansa was rooted to the spot, stunned by the sheer brutality of it all. She had never seen a horse behave this way, or known they were capable of such strength. 

Despite the chaos, the man had not lost his grip on the dagger. He was now raising it, making to stab at the beast.  _ No _ , Sansa thought in a panic, afraid now for the first time. She snapped out of her stupor and grabbed his arm, wrenching at it with all her might. She over-anticipated his strength in his state, however; his arm sprang back more easily than she expected, and a sharp pain followed as the blade slashed into her. Stranger shook him again and the blade clattered to the floor, followed by the sound of thunder and renewed screams.

Sansa looked up just as three Braavosi crewman came into view, running down the stairs to see what was causing such an uproar below deck. It all happened so fast, Sansa couldn't say exactly how the scrawny man came free from the horse's jaws, but soon he was being propped up by two of the crewmen as the third approached her.

“What is the meaning of this?” He demanded. Sansa didn't know what to do, still too stunned to make a reply. Her entire chest felt wet, and her knees felt like pudding. She put out an arm and braced herself against the stable door, having to blink rapidly to focus. 

“Bitch sent her horse on me!” The bleeding man cried from behind, his breathing labored as his wounds gushed blood down his front.

Sansa shook her head desperately; how she wished she could speak! But even in this state, she dare not. She pointed at the dagger lying on the floor. 

They seemed to understand; the third crewman took the dagger from the floor, turning on the bleeding man. “You bring weapons on  _ our _ ship?” he asked accusingly. “You try to attack a Godly woman, on  _ our _ ship?”

“That's not what happened!” He lied. “She attacked me, I was defending meself!”

“This man takes us for fools,” The man guffawed, and his companions joined in his laughter. He waved at them dismissively, as though sending away a particularly bad meal. “Throw this drunkard overboard. He can take his depravities to  _ someone else's _ ship.”

They dragged him roughly away, kicking and screaming all the while. Sansa was shaking like a leaf as the leader turned back to her. She put a hand out to halt him, not wanting there to be any more casualties. 

“I know that beast is wild,” He said in his thick accent. “Nearly took my own ear when you first boarded. I am deeply sorry, Sister,” he said earnestly as he took notice of the gash the dagger had made. Sansa seemed to notice it for the first time herself as she looked down, and with awareness and loss of adrenaline came a sharp, stinging,  _ pulsing _ pain. She whimpered, feeling it from the middle of her chest to the tips of her fingers on her left hand.

“We confiscate all weaponry; I do not know how that fool managed to slip one by us. It will not happen again, I assure you. We are going to inspect every inch of this ship. Are you all right?”

She looked up and, shakily, she nodded. She bowed her head and put her hands together as a show of thanks.

“Nothing more vile than preying on the defenseless.” He spat. “Praise the Gods that you brought such an unruly beast with you. I will have men sent to your room for that cut immediately, it is bleeding too much. Do you need help getting there?”

Sansa shook her head, and the man bowed before hurrying back up the stairs to fetch some help. From behind, Stranger nudged her in the back and whickered. She turned, pressed her lips into his nose. “Thank you.”

She walked up the stairs in a daze, still shaking, her footing clumsy and heavy. She didn't know how long it took her to get to their room, but it felt like a moon's turn. The corridor seemed to grow longer with every step, and she nearly lost her balance as the ship rocked back and forth. She walked the rest of the way slumped against the wall, paying no mind to the smear of blood that trailed behind. Once she got to the room at last, she stumbled inside, forgetting to knock as she pushed the door open.

“Oi!” she heard the shout as she crossed the threshold, but it was too late. She froze, mouth agape beneath her cowl. Surely she was a shocking sight, with all the blood—but none so shocking as what  _ she _ saw. He had stood—instinctively, as an intruder barged into the room unannounced—taking her for an enemy, as he always did when he was taken unaware.

“Oh...” she breathed, eyes wide and dazed as she stared at him. He stared back. She leaned on the door handle to keep from fainting.

His face had gone white as milk, and the expression there looked equally as aghast as she felt. Sansa could feel her face burning as it flushed the same color as the blood spattered across it. He hadn't yet finished his bath, and he stood there in the water, dripping wet and naked as his name day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the roller coaster ride. D: STAY STRAPPED IN, SWEETLINGS!
> 
> Full disclosure: this chapter was incredibly easy for me to initially write, but incredibly difficult to publish after reading 1,000 times. Hopefully nobody else reads it 1,000 times. It's horrible after 1,000 times, trust me.
> 
> Seriously, though...hope everyone likes it, and deems it worth the wait! I promise updates will be a little more swift now that I have sweet, sweet internet again! 
> 
> And here's a special thanks to my Beta, who is my personal Horse Whisperer™. I didn't originally know that horses possessed such strength as Stranger displays in this chapter, until she assured me otherwise! It made things a lot more fun :3
> 
> PS: I solemnly swear to not use the phrase, "naked as his/her nameday" again for the duration of this fic. It's out of my system now and forevermore!


	19. Sandor 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You said you'd protect her, dog. You swore._

“Close the door, damn you!” Sandor roared once he found his voice again. She squeaked and obeyed, spinning around and shutting the door behind her, latching it for good measure.

Heart hammering, he snatched his robes up off the floor, beside himself in the sudden assault on his privacy. He was already on his feet and ready for a fight when he realized what he was seeing. Not a threat. Something worse.  _ So much worse. _

He shrugged into the robe and closed the space between them in three steps, spinning her around to face him. His stomach turned over at the sight. Her eyeful of his nakedness paled in comparison to all the blood. Sandor’s head swam in a barely contained rage at the sight. He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to rein it in; he wouldn't be able to speak without absolutely screaming at her, he knew, and now wasn't the time.  _ Later.  _ He needed to keep his head; no,  _ she _ needed him to.

_ 'What happened?' _ he signed, his movements waspish and shaking.

Tears sprung up in her eyes as she opened her mouth, but no sound came out; she was speechless. 

He tried a different approach. _ 'Are you all right?' _

It was a stupid question. Of course she wasn't all right.  _ Gods, the blood… _

“Y-yes,” she stammered. “It hurts, but...I'm really sorry I didn't knock!” She burst into tears then, burying her face in her hands.

At first, Sandor was dumbstruck. Once he took her meaning, however, he took hold of her wrists and pulled them away from her face. She kept her eyes on the ground, but for once, he didn't take it personally.

“What did I tell you before?” He broke his silence now that he was sure he could keep his wits, though it still came out as a snarl. “Don't ever apologize to me, girl. I don't care about that. What  _ happened _ ? Who did this to you?” The desperation in his voice was impossible to hide; he would find them and kill them with his bare hands.

“He's being thrown o-overboard...” She looked up at him, suddenly fearful. “I should have stopped them, he was drunk, he d-doesn't deserve to die—“

“Yes he does,” Sandor cut in harshly, shaking her. “He deserves worse, you hear me?”

“St-stranger saved me,” she said between sobs. “Th-this is small compared to what he got.”  _ Good.  _ He hoped some of that blood belonged to them. “I tried to w-warn him, but he just kept c-coming...he tried to hurt him...I grabbed him...and...” She tried to put her face in her hands again, but Sandor caught her by the chin.  


“Stupid girl,” he muttered, but his tone had lost its bite as he slid the coverings off her face, her breathing rapid and labored. “You should have let the horse take the cut. He's seen worse.” Sandor made a note to treat his horse to all the sugar he could eat when he got a chance.  _ And if I ever see Elder Brother again, he'll eat crow for wanting me to leave him behind. _

“I wasn't afraid,” she insisted, although she still shook.

“Is this the worst of it?” He gingerly took her shoulder in-hand again, careful not to touch it just yet. She nodded.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“N-no…they're s-sending someone...and you have to get rid of that dagger you took,” She suddenly looked fearful again. “They're going to inspect the ship tonight.”

“Don't worry about that,” Sandor replied irritably, leading her over to the bed to sit her down, stooping down in front. “I decided not to risk it; I left it behind.” She looked relieved, wincing as he peeled the cloth away from her wound.

Sandor sucked in a breath at the sight. “Fuck me, it's deep.” In one swift motion, he ripped the blanket she was seated upon.  _ Deeper than I thought. And bigger.  _ He needed to stop the bleeding; it was hard to see through the blood, but she was horribly pale. She was probably in shock, he realized. He shouldn't have wasted time asking her questions.  _ She doesn’t know how serious it is.  _ The gash extended from her left shoulder to mid-chest. He frowned, tracing the path with a finger. “You're going to have a scar. Lie back.”

_ You said you'd protect her, dog. You swore. _

She obeyed, and Sandor put the cloth to her chest and applied pressure. She tried to keep a brave face, but a whimper managed to escape. “I know,” he said softly. “It hurts like hell. Try to think of something else.”

She blinked up at him, smiling weakly. “This is nothing...” She slid a hand under his left sleeve, grasping the forearm covered in burns from wrist to elbow. The girl had never seen more of him than the skin of his face and hands, before today. 

“I earned that with a sword in my hand, that's the difference.” He said roughly. A knock came at the door then.  _ Fucking finally. _ He placed her good hand over the cloth and instructed her to keep the pressure on the wound as he rose, covering his face before unlatching the door and throwing it open.

Two crewmembers had arrived; one bore a tray topped with hot wine, milk of the poppy, a basin of hot seawater, and washtowels. Sandor stiffened to look upon the second crewman, who had brought a stone basin filled with burning coals, a hot poker jutting out of it. He had expected needle and thread.

“The captain sends his sympathies, and his regrets,” the one in front said, bowing. “We have come to see to your wounded.” Sandor grunted in response, taking the tray and nodding in approval, while the second man brought the basin bedside. Sandor then shooed them away, ignoring all their protests and slamming the door after them. This was his mess to clean up. He doubted they would have seen such prompt care had they been one of the sorry shits sleeping out on the deck.  _ Probably think they’ve offended the Gods—or the Stranger. _

He returned to his position at her side, seeing the look of horror on her face at the sight of the burning coals. It matched how he felt.

“Drink this, it won't hurt anymore,” he said gently, keeping pressure on the gash as he sat her up to drink the milk of the poppy. For good measure, he made her wash it down with some of the wine. Once she was finished, he ripped open the cloth around her wound to allow better access. She gasped, but he ignored it. It would have been better to change her out of the robe altogether, but time was of the essence; any delay and he might just lose his nerve. 

“This part _ is _ going to hurt, little bird. Take my hand, and squeeze it as hard as you can. Try to break it.” He placed her right hand on his left as he dipped a cloth into the wine. He needed to move quickly.

She looked about to protest, but when the cloth made contact, she cried out and clenched at him, hard, her nails digging into into his skin. “That's it,” He encouraged her. “Don't go easy on me, I won't go easy on you.” He pressed the wine-soaked cloth into her again, and she gripped his hand so hard it almost hurt, grinding her teeth as she bit back sobs, breaking skin on his hand.

Once he was finished cleaning it, Sandor laid her back down and turned his attention towards the hot coals. Of all the things he ever wanted to do to her, burning her was the very last thing. _ Next to killing her.  _ The thought of it nearly made him physically ill.

He turned back to her, hesitating. “How's the pain?”

“Better,” she sighed with unfocused eyes.

“Good. Tell me when you can't feel it at all.” She rolled her head over to watch him as he put the pressure back on and dipped the cloth into the seawater, contented to wipe her face clean.

“I feel like Stranger,” she slurred, laughing weakly. He glanced at her, and if he weren't so beside himself with worry, he might have laughed with her. Her eyelids were heavy; it was setting in.

“Will you...stay...with me?” she murmured, each word coming out with great effort as her eyes fluttered, fighting to stay open.

“I've nowhere else to go, do I?” he reminded her.  _ Unfortunately for you. _ “Hush now, little bird. And keep still.”

“Have you...ever danced?” She ignored him, grasping his hand. He could have wept.

“I don’t dance. Hush now, I said.”

Her chest heaved feebly as she tried to laugh again. “Liar.” She swallowed. “Sandor?”

“What is it?” He asked impatiently, yet not unkindly.

“I can't...you can...I'm ready.”

_ I'm not, _ he thought warily. Elder Brother had showed him this method of healing once, on the Quiet Isle. It wasn't typical for the old man to bring a novice bedside to witness such things, but he seemed to believe it would help him hate fire less. At the time, it had only angered Sandor to be preached to over the screams of a wounded man. He'd been forced to sit in silence and watch, and listen. It had done little to help then and it did little to help now, but he recalled the old man's wisdom all the same.   


"Fire consumes, but it also cleanses. The pain this man feels now is nothing next to the pain he would feel later, if his wound was left to fester and kill him; not unlike the one I found you with. Had I found you sooner, you might still have your strength in that leg." He pressed the hot iron into the wounded man over and over, unaffected by his agony. "Fire is no different than any other of the earth's aspects. Fire is as essential to life as water, and even water can kill you."

Sandor took a deep breath. It was now or never.   


“I lied before. It's still going to hurt.” he placed one of the wash towels between her teeth. “A lot. Bite down, it will help.”

“Not...afraid…” she sighed under it.  _ At least one of us isn’t. _ Sandor had to take a deep breath to steady his hands. The sight of her blood on them nearly drove him mad.

He held the wound together in one hand, and shakily reached for the poker with the other. She didn't seem to feel the pain anymore, for she just stared up at him with those unfocused eyes, smiling.

“You...” She swallowed again, eyes sliding closed. “love...me...”

_ More than air.  _ Sandor frowned, but made no reply. She was slipping off now, and didn’t know what she was saying, not truly.

_ Will she still think that after you scald her, dog? _

“And I lo—”

Sandor pressed the poker into her flesh and she screamed, fresh tears springing from her eyes. He had to blink to focus his own vision, but he didn't give her time to recover, wanting it to be over quick.  _ I'm so sorry, little bird, I'm so sorry.  _ He repeated the mantra in his head as he pressed it down again, and again and again, until he'd cauterized and sealed the entire length of the cut. It had taken only moments, but it was an eternity to his mind. She had wailed all the while, and he knew the sound would always haunt him; they were not nearly as loud as her cries from before, but they were twice as distressed. The stench of cooking flesh filled the room, and he very nearly blacked out from it.

Her breathing had deepened, indicating that she'd succumbed to the poppy at last.  _ Or fainted from the pain. _ Sandor let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He dabbed more wine over the wound to lower her risk of infection, shaking so badly that he nearly dumped it all over her.

Now that the urgency of the situation had passed, Sandor was left to himself. Self-loathing began to rise up in him once more.  _ I swore to protect her, and I just sat here instead. _ Something had felt wrong, he had felt it in his gut while he bathed. But he didn’t act—had ignored it as he daydreamed—and now here she lay, with a cut so deep he had seen bone; and  _ scorched _ , the flesh around it already beginning to turn a violent shade of purple.  _ Not even Littlefinger let her suffer like this. Not even the Imp… _

He knelt at her side for a long while, head in his hands as his shame poured out of him. After a time, anguish gave way to rage. He rose, letting out a furious howl as he drove his fist into the wall, then the other—again and again and again—until his knuckles were raw and bleeding and he had no strength left to keep going. He didn’t care if someone heard, didn’t care if the girl wouldn’t approve. He had failed her.  _ Again. _

Sandor slumped to the floor. What did it matter if he  _ loved _ her? His love had done her no favors, was not the kind of love they wrote about in songs. He had sworn to protect her, not  _ love _ her. His hatred had given her emotional scars, and now, his love had given her physical ones. There was no version of himself that would ever be good enough for her, no matter his intentions. Dogs weren’t made to run with wolves, and would only ever break little birds. Dogs might dream of dancing, but they could only bite and bark in waking. His sort of love was a tainted thing; a mockery of the word.

_ Elder Brother was a fool, and so was I. _

Sandor didn’t sleep; he couldn’t sleep. He sat on the opposite side of the room, never taking his eyes off her, drinking himself dumb. What did it matter if he shamed himself in his cups? He’d already shamed himself, completely sober.

She was fitful all the while. Every now and then, she would talk in her sleep. “Where are you?”

_ I'll help you find them, little bird. When I do, I'll show you the mercy you deserve, and you'll never have to see me again. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I pinky promise that this is the climax of Sandor's self-hate parade, LOL.


	20. Sansa 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was too out of his mind for reason. Trying to speak to him like this was no good at all, and she would not lie here and play prisoner to his bitterness.

The pain came before consciousness did, and both precluded memory. She moaned, putting a hand to her throbbing left shoulder. The pain shot all the way down through her chest. It was rough to the touch, and an intense soreness bloomed out from it.

She heard stumbling footsteps cross the room, and then a heavy sound as they halted at her bedside. “Are you awake, little bird? Are you all right?”

The concern in his voice concerned her in turn. She flitted her eyes open for only a second before squeezing them shut again, stinging from even the dim light of the room. Memories began to come back to her rapidly then, all at once. The singing, the drunkard, the biting, the dagger, the crewmen,  _ the naked man _ , the pain, the bloody hands, the numbness, the  _ pain _ , the darkness, the loneliness…

A shadow moved in front of the window, and the stench of wine assaulted her. Sansa opened her eyes again, and his covered face slowly came into focus. She could only see his eyes, but they were bloodshot and glassy, heavy-lidded with exhaustion as they stared back at her. He was white as a sheet; even his burned side was pale.

“You look awful,” She croaked.

“Here,” he ignored her, lifting her head up and bringing a cup to her lips. Sansa suddenly realized how parched she felt, how cracked her lips were. She drank eagerly, but nearly spat it out on her first mouthful; she expected wine, but somehow he had found fresh water instead. She gulped it ravenously after that.

“How long has it been?” she asked once she drank her fill, her head sinking back into the pillows.

“A day and a half. Two, maybe.” He shrugged, his shoulders sagging. Sansa frowned as she observed him in earnest, the fog of sleep beginning to clear.

“You're drunk. And you haven't slept.” It wasn't a question. She had been unable to find him in her dreams, which had given way to nightmares; now she knew why.

“That’s none of your concern,” he muttered dismissively, parting the cloth at her chest to check the wound.

“I'm not concerned,” she said flatly, glaring up at him. “I'm angry.” He glared back before returning his attention to her chest.

"Good. You should be." His voice was raw and gravelly. And his eyes...

"What has become of you?" She had not expected this to be his manner upon waking.

"Sense," he grunted.

"Is that what you call it?"

She followed his line of sight to the wound, dark and long and bruised all around. It was painful, more painful today than before, now that her wits had returned to her. She had at least expected that, however.

“Tell me, little bird,” He said, his voice having none of the gentleness she had come to expect. “How's that arm feel?”

Sansa looked at him, confused. She made to raise her left arm, but it felt half-numb and tingly, and the effort sent pain shooting up the length of it. She rubbed her fingers together at her side, barely feeling it.

Sansa looked up at him again. "It feels strange."

Sandor’s sudden burst of laughter surprised her. "How do you like that,  _ my lady? _ " He asked scathingly. " _ Nerve damage, _ I thought it might be. As if cutting and bleeding and burning and bruising weren't already enough. How do you feel about your sodding  _ choices _ now?" He laughed again, slumping clumsily back against the wall, arms draped over his knees. She noticed his hands for the first time, in far worse shape than she had left them.

_ What has happened to him? _ Sansa thought wildly. She felt absurdly outraged by the sight of him like this.

"Did you truly spend this whole time feeling sorry for yourself?"

"You're the one I feel sorry for," he snapped, but she knew she had wounded him.

"Spare me," she said, mocking him with his own maxim. "You think this is your fault?"

"Aye," he confirmed. "Because it is."

"You're stupid, then." Sansa said coldly, glaring at the ceiling. “You put yourself in your cups, just like the man who attacked me did, and that also makes you a hypocrite. You're making this all about yourself, and that makes you selfish too.”

She flinched as he hurled her empty water cup across the room, making a loud bang. "I was supposed to protect you, not melt you back together.” The fact that he didn't have the strength to yell disturbed Sansa most of all. “You never should have been out of my sight."

"What would you propose, then?" She asked hotly. "Shall we stop bathing? Or, perhaps, we shall bathe together from now on?"

She knew that would halt him. He saw her point—she could hear it in his brooding silence—only he was too stubborn to admit it.

"You won't be able to save me from everything," she said emphatically, taking advantage of his lapse in raving. "I'm not a child anymore, and I’ve endured much worse. You were there when it mattered, and for that I am more grateful than you could know. You punish yourself for nothing, and in turn you punish me as well."

"You'll bear that scar for your whole life," he pointed at it accusingly, as if he hadn't heard anything she’d said. "And you may never have full use of that arm again. All preventable. Your gratitude is shit."

"You think I care about that?" She asked, incredulous. "Do you think me so shallow? Or is it you who is the shallow one?” She put her eyes back to the ceiling, frustrated tears filling them. “I would take a hundred scars like it, over the ones I bear around my heart. I would make that trade in an instant."

“Careful what you wish for, girl.” He rasped, laughing low in his throat. He had to catch himself from falling as the ship lurched over a wave.

Sansa set her jaw and looked back over at him. He was too out of his mind for reason. Trying to speak to him like this was no good at all, and she would not lie here and play prisoner to his bitterness. She put her weight on her good arm and began to push herself up. The pain shot through her, but she gritted her teeth, unwilling to let him see it.

His mirth curdled up at once. Sandor moved forward to help her, but she jerked herself away. “Don't touch me,” she hissed, getting to her feet, feeling slightly dizzy by the effort.

“Little birds can't fly with broken wings,” he drawled, also rising; he was expecting her to fall, she knew. But he swayed more than she did.

“Watch me,” She said defiantly, snatching a cloak up off the floor and walking to the door. “My legs still work.”

He made to follow, but she put her good arm out and shoved him away; it was a testament to how drunk he truly was, that the force sent him stumbling back a few paces. She winced again, but was determined not to look as feeble as she felt. “If you're not sleeping off this disgrace when I return, I will take to sleeping on the deck, I swear it. I won't dignify this folly any longer.”

"Folly," he repeated, his face twisted in disgust. "Disgrace. One cannot sleep such things away. We're well past that."

Sansa's mouth tightened. "Try."

She wrenched the door open. "Don't—" he started, coming forward again; she heard a trace of remorse in it.

" _Don't_  follow me," She commanded.

Sandor halted on his own this time, as sharply as though she'd put an arrow through him. The anger was already going out of her; if she hesitated, she would lose her resolve. Sansa threw open the door and stepped over the threshold, where the air wasn't so heavy. She breathed deep, and closed the door behind.

Her head began to clear, and she began to understand. _ I was supposed to protect you, not melt you back together. _The milk of the poppy had left a fog over her memory; now, however, she could see the look on his face at the sight of burning coals.  _To him, there is nothing worse than fire._ She had the compulsion to open that door, to convince him otherwise.  _But he will not listen. Cannot._

She heard a soft thump against the wood, where his head would be. “Please,” he said, so quietly she almost didn't hear it. She put a hand against the barrier, as hard and gnarled as his face.  


_ It's for your own good,  _ she thought sadly. She couldn’t speak to him like this, but he would surrender to sleep soon enough. He was always a truer version of himself in dreams. 


	21. Sandor 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was different now. Wasn't he? He had to be. He never wanted her to stop looking at him. Was she his leash now? His tether to humanity?

Sandor didn't remember when he slumped to the floor, or rose from it. He couldn't recall how he got to the bed, whether he walked or crawled. He didn't remember much of anything, truth be told. Not in detail. Everything bled together in his stupor just as much as his vision did. He'd been sick half a dozen times, and he felt he would be sick again, yet the world still spun and swam and blurred around him.

She was right to leave.  _ When did she become so right? _ Wasn't it he who had lived longer, he who knew more things? Why was he so wrong, and how was she so right?

She was wrong not to blame him, that much was certain _. But I shouldn't have been cruel to her, either. _ _Shouldn't have gotten too drunk to follow her…_ he realized for the first time just how entirely blind with drink he was, and how very tired, and nauseated besides. He wanted to die.

He had already caused her enough pain, and had only caused her more.  _ She shouldn't be out of bed. I shouldn't be the one laying in it. I shouldn't be here at all. _

He didn't want to sleep, and he fought it with all the energy he had left to him. In truth, he wanted her to come back, didn't want her to make good on her threat...but he also didn’t want to face her. His eyes slid closed involuntarily, and he found he was unable to open them again.   _ I shouldn't be here, but I am. I should've protected her, but I didn't. I should've been there for her, but I wasn't.  _ He wasn’t capable of doing the right thing; he never had been.  _ Stupid, selfish hypocrite. _

Sandor was in his white cloak, watching them beat her. He was forcing her head up, relishing the fear in her eyes as much as loathing it. He was drunk again, forcing her to sing for her life. He was in his Novice's robes, shoving his cruel tongue in her mouth. He was at her bedside, a hot poker in his hand, burning her, burning her, burning her…

Each moment looped back on itself in turn, again and again, reliving his crimes. Crimes he never atoned for, and never could. Crimes he couldn't stop repeating. Over and over again. Red hair, brown hair, black hair...it didn't matter. He would never stop hurting her. It always ended up here.

He did not know how long he had been stuck in his loop when the paradigm shifted. He was burning her again, her agonized cries filling his ears and the scent of flesh in his nostrils, when he heard a hushed voice from behind.

“ _ This _ is what you see?”

He turned to look at her, and suddenly he wasn't on the ship anymore. They were in King's Landing; the turmoil all around them was familiar. He stood, confused. She was next to him, pointing.

"Look through my eyes, now." She said softly.

It was a strange sensation, watching himself from this perspective. Through the crowd of angry peasants he saw another version of himself slice a man's arm off—the one pulling at a duplicate Sansa's arm—before he shoved her back in the saddle and challenged anyone else to try him.

The scene shifted in an eyeblink, and now they were at the ramparts, Ned Stark's head mounted upon the wall. Sandor's other self knelt before her and wiped blood from her broken lip before she could reach the King and forfeit her life. 

Now they were in the throne room. “Someone give the girl something to cover herself with,” the Imp was saying. Without hesitation, he was stepping forward, removing the white cloak from his shoulders and tossing it to the half-naked girl on the floor. She clutched at it like a starving man might clutch at a heel of bread.

Everything was happening so fast. The scene shifted again, a tourney now. They were spectating, and there were two versions of Sansa standing next to him—the new and the old. The taller of the two watched him directly, while the smaller one watched the version of himself in the tilt, eyes wide and fearful. When Jaime Lannister was sent rolling in the dust, he heard the latter let out a breath. “I knew the Hound would win.”

In the Great Sept of Baelor, the girl was alone, praying among the rest of the commoners who filled the hall.

"He is no true knight, but he saved me all the same," she was whispering to the Mother. "Save him if you can, and gentle the rage inside him."

And now they were in her bedchamber, the sky a dull green outside. He wasn't there in duplicate this time, however. It was only her, as she climbed down from the comfort of her bed and found the tarnished cloak bunched up on the floor. She wrapped it around herself, shivering.

Sandor blinked, and the scenes began to shift more rapidly now. Alayne Stone walking away as she clutched a wooden sparrow to her chest; the sounds of muffled weeping filled the air as they held each other in the sept; Sansa was declaring her lack of fear as she pulled his face down on hers; he looked upon his own nakedness as the color drained from him; his voice was soft and gentle as he tended to her wound...

"Stop it," he moaned, sinking to his knees and clutching his head. "Stop it, I'm not that man..."

She bent down before him, taking one of his hands in hers and holding it to her chest. "You are," she breathed. "But you won't let your wounds heal properly.  _ Please _ , listen to me. Let me help you...or mine won't heal either."

He raised his eyes to her, miserable. "I don't deserve your help," he could feel the laceration beneath the cloth, and he stroked it gingerly with his thumb. "And my help won't save you."

"I'm no object in need of being deserved," she said imploringly. "I don't care what you do or don't deserve. I choose you all the same, and you choose me too...the Gods themselves have forged our paths into one."

_T here are no Gods. _ Hadn't she figured that out by now? “All paths you walk with me will only lead to death, and fire."

"I understand now," she said solemnly. "It's the fire that undid you, the same as before. I didn’t see then, but I do now. Sandor...you burned me long before that," she took his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. "You gave me hope, restored my faith,  _ loved _ me...” Her eyes were flitting back and forth as she attempted to look into both of his at once, searching him. “ I am thankful for this burn; your fire is cleansing, not cruel."

"How can you say that?" He shook his head in disbelief, pulling roughly out of her grasp. He couldn’t allow himself to feel moved by her words.  _ Words are wind. _

"It's not just the fire,” he said, speaking through clenched teeth. “It’s all of it. I  _ swore _ I would keep you safe from harm; I looked a man in the eye and said the words...the only vow I ever made, and I broke _ it _ ,  _ and _ burned you in the process. Nothing else matters."

She looked touched, which irritated him further. “You  _ swore _ ?”

“ _ Aye _ ,” He replied nastily. “For all the good it did.”

Sansa sighed. “You can't protect me from  _ everything _ ; you can’t shelter me from the world. I wouldn’t want you to; I want to live.  _ Truly _ live.”

“What about when it kills you?” Sandor asked darkly.

“Everyone dies,” she said firmly. “I’d rather not die in a cage. I don't think Elder Brother expected you to prevent all my cuts and scrapes, either. Nothing has changed."

“Except you’re hurt.  _ Badly, _ ” he pointed out. “This isn’t a mere scrape, girl. That arm may never be the same again."  


"I’m right-handed,” Sansa replied bluntly. “and I will get used to the numbness in time. It’s extraordinary how skilled I am at getting used to things.”

How could she be so stubborn? "You will wear that scar for all the world to see any time you wear one of your pretty dresses. And the world will know exactly who allowed that to happen. Maybe they would even write songs about it, you’d like that.”

She set her jaw in stone. “When the world sees this scar,” she declared, “I will tell them it would have killed me, were it not for Sandor Clegane. That I am alive, several times over, because of Sandor Clegane.  Can’t you see?”

Sandor had never felt so blind in his life. She saw the incomprehension on his face, and huffed. “I will look at this scar and be reminded that you did something better than kill a man, and risk having our identities put into question. You saw me through it. You  healed me...you _saved_ me."

Sandor’s mouth twitched.  _ I’m never letting her near a Maester, lest she start thinking him a hero as well. _

"Scars never heal," he murmured bitterly. "Not truly."

"Scars are forever,” she agreed. “But the pain doesn't have to be."

Sandor snorted. "Pretty words from a pretty girl, but they’re wind. Scars are a constant reminder of the pain that created them; they go hand-in-hand. The world certainly won’t let you forget it besides.”

She bowed her head in acknowledgment. "Life has been cruel to you; but this scar wasn’t forged from that kind of pain. And it was your hatred that made you ugly, not your scars...not to me. When you're kind..." the color rose up her neck.   


"Don't patronize me," Sandor snapped, moving away from her as she reached out for him again. "Not you."

_ Please, give me death before pity. _

"I would never lie to you," she insisted. "I see you as you are, not as you appear.”

“You only have eyes for songs,” He remarked, feeling suddenly claustrophobic by the way she looked at him. “Stop trying to make life into one.”

“I can abide the pain, and even your cynicism,” She began, drawing herself up to sit a little taller. “but I cannot abide you thinking me so fragile and naive. You do a disservice to us both by thinking it.” She put a hand on his, still bearing the bruises from his episode. “For all you've endured, I do not pity you.” Sandor tilted his head, watching her carefully. She was chewing her lip.

“I know what it's like to feel that kind of pain, and to have to keep going. I know the courage it takes. Perhaps not so much as you do, but enough to know that pity is the last thing you could need, short of more pain. What you need is what I need: support, and respect. That's what you have from me, and it's what I expect from you. That’s what it's like to not be  _ alone  _ anymore. I would like to grow accustomed to it.”

Sandor was staring her in the eyes, and couldn’t believe she could stand to look back into his. He wanted to find the chink in her armor—a glimmer of weakness to exploit—but he found no such thing. She stared back at him, defiant and sincere all at once. It wasn’t her armor that was defective, but his.

He had told himself he would be the man she thought he was...where had he gone so wrong? He had failed her, it was true. Rather than do better, he had succumbed to it, drowned himself in it entirely. Just like he always did. Rather than rectify his mistakes, he always made them worse, just because he could.  _ And the cycle never ends. _ Because he was a craven, and stubborn, and because it was easy. Things had been different on the Quiet Isle; he had no opportunities for fresh guilt, and he had Elder Brother there to rein him in. Digging holes was easy. Filling them was hard.  


But he was different now. Wasn’t he? He  _ had _ to be. He never wanted her to stop looking at him. Was she his leash now? His tether to humanity?

He couldn't change the past; he could only change how he responded to it. He didn’t deserve her, but here she was anyway, begging him to see her as his equal. She was right, she was not so fragile; but she was also wrong, for they were not equals either. She was  _ better _ than him, and far stronger. Smarter and funnier and wiser and,  _ Gods _ , so beautiful. This would have made him resentful once; as though she were only his new master. But as much as he didn't feel equal to her, he didn't feel a slave either. She made him feel more a man than dog.

It was as though a dam was breaking. He was not her savior; she was his. She was everything he wanted, and everything he wished he could be. She didn’t have a head full of songs, she  _ was _ the song. He would never have her, not truly; but he would never be bitter or ungrateful for it. He already had more than enough. He realized in that moment that he was dreaming, and it was the strangest feeling in the world. It changed his epiphany not at all, however. The source of his revelation mattered not—in this case, it was his own conscience—the conclusions drawn from it remained the same.

She was watching him, waiting for him to respond. He didn't have as much to say as her, but he hoped it would be enough.

“You won’t see me like this again,” he said solemnly. As a show of his sincerity, he returned to the habit of signing what he spoke. “I swear it.” He would be sure to tell her in person as well.

Her face split into the prettiest smile he’d ever seen. “Don’t wake up,” she said, also signing.

“I won't,” he returned, laughing at the confirmation that he was still inside his own head.

She crawled over to him and lifted herself into his lap. Arousal hit Sandor like a punch in the face. He hadn't anticipated that. “What happened to respect?” He muttered, putting the question to himself more than to her. Sansa had the audacity to laugh.

“You love me,” she said, burying her fingers in his hair.

“Aye,” Sandor confessed, half a groan.

She pulled him forward, and Sandor didn't hesitate this time as he covered her mouth with his own. He was safe in his head, and he had been dreaming of kissing her for so long, with no relief in sight. And— _ Gods be good— _ the lucidity of it diminished none of its realism.

He slid his arms about her waist and held her closer, kissing and caressing and whispering her name. She kissed his brow, his neck, each of his cheeks. The screams and stench of burning flesh were forgotten, replaced by the smell of her hair and the sounds of her desire. Sandor kissed every part of her face before returning to her lips, feeling her smiling into them. He smiled too.

He wished he would never have to wake up; would never have to stop kissing her. He was on fire, and for the first time in his life, he was happy to burn.


	22. Sansa 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wouldn't be a perfect life...but life was not a song, and it was the best that she could hope for. _The dreams could be enough._

Sansa's eyes flew open, her heart racing wildly. The pain returned abruptly, but she quickly pretended to still be asleep when she felt him stirring awake beside her. She didn't know why, but she didn't want to be the first one awake.

_Yes you do,_ a voice in her head taunted her, sounding exactly like Myranda. _You know exactly why._ Sansa hated the way her face burned. When she returned to the room to find him in the bed, she had deliberated over the indecency of joining him there at all, rather than just go to his side of the room. Alayne's boldness had won out over Sansa's modesty in the end, however. She had first changed out of her ruined robe into one of her spares, covering her face and all— _as though that would make it more acceptable,_ she scolded herself.

She was lying flat—the wound was too painful to lay on her side—but had awoken with a heavy weight pinning her to the bed, that she now knew belonged to the arm draped over her. Meanwhile, she had her right arm draped clumsily over his face. And, perhaps most indecent of all, she could feel a stiffness in her leg.  Myranda's voice was still in her head, giggling like a madwoman. He was realizing it too. Sansa was desperate to look natural, for her face to stop _burning_ . When he finally came to, he moved so quickly away from her that she almost forgot the pain in her chest in her attempt not to burst out _laughing_ at it all.

Sansa's amusement was confusing to her; she expected to feel more embarrassed than this, or even afraid. The kissing in their dream had been so passionate and unrestrained it made her head spin. She still felt that rare but familiar ache from it as she lay there, and was thankful that she was a woman, for her arousal didn't manifest in such a salient fashion.

The kissing had almost gone too far, however. He had taken her into one arm, and soon she was on the ground—now a grassy field, in the dream—and he lowered himself on top of her, a low growl in his throat. It had thrilled Sansa, and she pulled him down lower, his curtain of dark hair concealing them both.

That was when she felt the stiffness for the first time, as he began to move against her. Sansa blushed deeper as she remembered the utterly vulgar sound that had escaped her then. He had laughed. He supported himself with one hand, his other at the nape of her neck, holding her head to his as he kissed her, so fiercely she could still feel the burning in her lips, could still _taste_ it.

It was when a hand began to travel that Sansa awoke, having felt suddenly overwhelmed. She lay there with her racing heart and aching loins, realizing she wasn't prepared for what came after kissing. She was embarrassed to admit that she hadn't even _considered_ it, for all her attempts to kiss him in her dreams lately. _It all happened too fast._ The idea of that act had always repulsed Sansa besides; she only knew it to be an unpleasant experience, or otherwise a duty for making heirs, meant only for a marriage bed. The fact that she had been thrilled instead was disturbing to her, but it was _hilarious_ to Myranda and Alayne.

He had scrambled out of the bed, and after some shuffling around, Sansa heard the door open and close. She cracked an eye open and saw that he had gone. Now that she was alone, she was unable to hold it in. She burst out into laughter, for all her conflicted feelings were temporarily no match for how his face must have looked when he woke up like that. _He doesn't know I dreamed it too._ As far as he knew, she was still upset with him _._ If she felt embarrassed and confused, he must be twice as much.

Sansa scolded herself for the cruelty of her amusement, even as tears of mirth filled her eyes. She would be sure to pretend she had only just awoken, and spare him from feeling his guilt. In truth, she felt a small bit guilty for herself. He wouldn't know that his dream had, in its way, been real. She should tell him, she knew. And she would. _Later._ It would either disturb him, which would make him sullen and distant; or it would make him angry, which would also make him sullen and distant. It was frustratingly complicated, and things were already complicated enough for the time-being.

_Dornish women don't have these problems,_ Sansa reflected bitterly. She had chosen him in her heart, but there was more at stake when it came to choosing a man for her bed. However, the idea of men in her bed who weren't in her heart was no good either. Would she _ever_ take another man in her heart? Would she ever be so profoundly connected to anyone else? It put her at an impasse. She chewed her lip thoughtfully.

_Maybe I'll never take a husband,_ she thought. _I won’t need one. I'm the last remaining Stark of Winterfell; it is mine by rights, and the Stark name dies with me whether I wed or no._

She pushed herself up to sit—the effort bringing the pain back in earnest—but her mind was whirring. _This is what the Gods intended._ She couldn't marry Sandor Clegane, so she would wed no one. Her people would love her for her virtue. The Northmen would respect her for her independence. She would keep him at her side, forever, and she could still remain a maiden. It wouldn't be a perfect life...but life was not a song, and it was the best that she could hope for. _T_ _he dreams could be enough_ . He could always protect her in waking, and love her in sleeping. _No one would be the wiser…_

He came back in the room then, and she was opening her mouth to tell him everything she had just thought about, but it caught in her throat. It would either go well, or it would go horribly. Sansa didn't like the uncertainty of it. She _would_ tell him, but she had to know how and when first. This would have to wait for later as well.

Additionally, Sansa was curious to know how he intended to proceed without these complications, now that he was awake and sober. Would he be brooding, or would he be more like his dream-self?

He had changed into new clothing, Sansa noticed, and he bore a tray with food and drink for them both. It was a good start.

“Did you sleep well?” She asked as he came over, also signing it. That seemed to ease him, as she hoped it might; his shoulders relaxed somewhat.

He set the tray down at her side, stooping with it so they were at eye-level. His expression was serious. “I was a cunt yesterday,” he said, also signing. “You won't see me like that again. You have my word on that.”

She wanted to kiss him again. “I forgive you,” she smiled. “You look much better.”

“Couldn't have looked worse,” he retorted, but she could see the relief in his eyes. “Eat, now. You look half-starved.” He removed his own meal from the tray before setting it on her lap, and Sansa took it hungrily; she realized she hadn't had a proper meal in days.

They ate in silence, but Sansa could feel his eyes on her. Was he remembering the dream, as she was? There was an unspoken tension in the air, but it wasn't uncomfortable. He wasn't brooding; it was something softer. He seemed at ease.

“How's the pain?” he asked after a time, no longer able to see the wound under her fresh clothing.

“Sore,” she admitted. Her left arm still tingled as well. “But it's better.”

“Good,” he said gruffly. Sansa looked him over, at his hands.

“And you?”

He followed her line of sight, laughing. “Never been better.”

It surprised her how sincere that sounded. She shifted so that she could face him while she picked at a heel of bread. “We should go see Stranger,” she said. “I owe him my thanks.”

“And I owe him a clean stall,” Sandor agreed. “And you could use some sun on your face. We'll go when you're done nibbling.”

As a show of finality, she put the bread down and removed the tray from her lap. He stood in response, holding a hand out to help her to her feet. Sansa took it gladly, drawing herself close to him. Her stomach fluttered.

For the way he looked at her, she seemed to inspire a similar effect. It was such a contrast to how she had seen him last, it almost felt like she was looking at a different person altogether.

_My Florian,_ Sansa thought as they exited the cabin.


	23. Sandor 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Friend._ The word made him uneasy, for it was not what he saw in her, not truly. Nor in himself.

_'Gregor,'_ Sandor signed. Sansa frowned as she traced a scar along his ribs. It made him twitch. He saw her wicked smile, caught her wrists before she could strike. “Don't you dare,” he warned, and she laughed.

He smiled with her; even in dreams, he was unable to control or predict her. Sandor liked that. Ever since his drunken episode, he had become inexplicably aware in his dreams, and as a result they had become more intimate.  _In more ways than one._ He was afforded the freedom to speak plainly to her, to hear her laughter and even to laugh more for himself; she was a girl of good humor, he'd come to learn, and none of that was lost in dreams.

The days that passed since the attack had been long and quiet, but not unpleasant. They had taken to spending much more time with Stranger, and as such had spent much less time speaking aloud. The girl would perch herself upon the stall door, her good arm wrapped about the stallion's neck.

Sometimes, they merely sat in silence for hours at a time; it reminded Sandor of the Quiet Isle. The water flowed beneath him rather than around him however, and there was no distraction—no mundane action to busy himself with—to serve as remedy to the nausea it brought him. Sandor misliked it greatly.  _At least the company is better._

It wasn't an uncomfortable silence, but all the same, the confinement made him restless.  _And she as well._  Silence was easy, but conversation was what the girl enjoyed more, and he had to concede that the time passed more quickly when he engaged in it. And, it seemed, she was always finding ways of initiating it. When they were below with Stranger, she would ask him to teach her new ways to help in tending him—such as cleaning out his hooves, although they didn't need it—and would proceed to ask him questions as he showed her. When above deck, she would ponder after his opinion on everything from what they'd overheard in Saltpans to what they might expect to find in Braavos. At night, when they finally returned to their quarters to sleep, she would ask him to check the ravaged flesh of her chest, to be sure it was healing properly. The time for infection to set in had passed, and Sandor had told her as much; but all the same, she insisted.

Besides the dreaming, that was the time of day Sandor liked best. Returned to the privacy of the room, they would lie on opposite sides of it and close their eyes. For a time, they would lie in silence. Inevitably, however, her voice always pierced the black of night, just as he was on the edge of sleep. Sandor had come to expect it now, lying patient and still until the time came, smiling a secret smile to himself when it did. It was stories she wanted; told to her, not signed.  _Real_  stories, not make believe. She wanted to hear the stories that fell between his desertion and when she'd found him, he knew. Staring at the ceiling, Sandor always indulged her, but only if she gave him stories as well—and gave them first. He told her mostly about his time on the Quiet Isle, how he'd learned to carve wood and speak with his hands, about the brothers who dwelled there and Elder Brother, too. Those stories were safe, and far easier to tell. In return, Sandor had learned much about Alayne Stone and Sansa Stark, about the happiness she'd found and the horrors she'd faced both. Her stories were always longer, and far more engaging in the telling. If his stories were dull to her, however, she made no remark.

He recalled what she had said to him that night, as they told their stories in the dark. " _Petyr worked hard to ensure I had no other friends but him."_ She paused, laughed quietly to herself. " _But there was one he overlooked."_

" _I'm no friend to you,"_ he had told her gruffly.

 _Friend_. The word made him uneasy, for it was not what he saw in her, not truly. Nor in himself.  _In waking I am her companion, but in sleeping, I am just a dog still._ And yet he made no efforts to change the dreams, though it was surely well within his doing. Indeed, Sandor looked forward to them as much as he brooded over his having them at all; he could  _kiss_  her here, and he did, at every opportunity. And she always kissed him back.

He didn't  _want_ to be her friend. _She knows that for herself._ Or did she? The day of the attack felt an eternity ago now, but it was the milk of the poppy that spoke to him that day, not Sansa. Sometimes, it was difficult to separate the version of her in his head from the one across the room, they were so alike; but there was  _one_ considerable difference that set them apart.

And yet, whenever he reached below her neck, the girl would disappear, and Sandor would jolt awake. Even in his imaginations, it seemed she was a lady still, and a maid besides. So Sandor had abandoned such attempts, content to kiss her, and for her to kiss him, to prolong the sleeping.

In this dream, they were lying side by side in tall grass, and she had asked him to tell her more stories. It had amused him, that the ritual had carried over. He asked what she wanted to hear, and she was quiet for a long moment as she thought it over, indecisive. She then propped herself up on an elbow, put a hand on his ruined cheek.

"You told me how this happened once," she said solemnly. "Tell me how you got the rest."

He had laughed a dark laugh at that, telling her there were stories she might like better. "I want to know  _yours_ ," she insisted. Sandor had argued, outright refused; but then she slid a hand under his tunic, and he became more easily convinced after that. In the end, he pulled the shirt off and lay back down, pulled her on top of him, and asked where she wished to start.

She was straddling him now, pointing at different scars in turn. Any time one had come from his brother, Sandor only signed the name, not willing to dignify it any further than that. Gregor was dead, and Sandor had buried him on the Quiet Isle, next to all the other corpses. In truth, that was the last thing he wanted to talk about, especially in his own pipe dreams. She would ask questions after every detail, but didn't pursue them when that name came up.

She saved the burn on his forearm for last. "Tell me how you got this," she said, brushing her fingers over the twisted skin. Sandor hesitated, although he couldn't be sure why.  _She's not real._

"It was my own fault, truth be told," He said dismissively. "I drank myself blind after I left the capital."  _Mourning you, mourning myself._ His mouth twitched. He'd been wandering aimlessly, miserable and drunk, replaying the night of the battle in his head and warring with himself over whether to go back and take her, or to just let himself waste away. He'd opted for the latter when he'd been discovered.

"Did you fall into a cookfire?" She wondered, trying to figure it out before he could tell it.

"I don't wander too near cookfires, as a rule," he snorted. "But I surely would have fallen, had one been near...or I had the ability to stand. I was captured," he explained, when her expression didn't look amused. "A lucky day for those self-righteous cunts, too. Too in my cups to lift a sword, and carrying a small fortune in gold." He absentmindedly stroked a thigh with his thumb as he spoke. Sandor had opted to die, but his capture had reignited in him a passion to live. He could not suffer any man to kill him so easily, least of all in the name of Gods, red or old or new, it made no matter.  _And because she was there._  

"They decided to put me on trial for my brother's crimes, and then for one of mine," he went on. Knowing she'd ask, he added, "The butcher's boy."

She looked confused by that, trying to remember. It had been so long ago. "Cersei ordered you to do that. She should have been the one on trial."

He laughed.  _You are so different from her._  "Believe it or not, that reasoning wasn't good enough. And they couldn't exactly get revenge on the Lannister bitch, could they? I was the next best thing; the man who swung the sword."  _Who laughed about it after._

"Why the butcher's boy?" She wanted to know. "Was one of his kin among them?"

"Not kin, no." Sandor eyed her carefully. "A friend."

"And they burned you, as punishment?" She asked, running delicate fingers along the ridges. Sandor barely felt it, but was grateful for the shift in focus.

"They gave me a trial by combat, though whether it was a _fair_ trial is a different tale. We fought with steel," he went on. "But his was on fire, aye. A coward's weapon." He turned his head and spat. "We had shields too, but it was no better than kindling; mine took up the flame."

She gasped. "That's horrible..." The flesh tingled where she touched it, and he could almost feel it burning again. "But you still defeated him. It must have taken great courage."

Sandor frowned, remembering the way he'd sobbed, cried out for help. "Bravery had nothing to do with it, girl," he said with contempt. "It was my life or his, end of."

She didn't argue, changing the course of the conversation instead. "Who were you against?"

"Beric Dondarrion." The name was scornfully said. She recognized it at once.

"My friend Jeyne was so in love with him," she gasped again, drawing her hands up to cover her mouth. She was a good audience for stories, Sandor mused.  _Inside my head and out._

"She wouldn't have favored him half so much when I saw him," He replied, imagining the grotesque mockery that had been made of Dondarrion's appearance; his missing eye, the bashed in side of his face, the dark ring around his neck...

"How do you mean?"

"He was in worse shape than I, even before I put my sword through him." Sandor's mouth twitched.  _Before he came back to life right before my eyes._

That seemed to give the girl an idea. "Can you show me?" She asked, suddenly eager.

He stared at her blankly for a moment, propping himself up on an elbow. For the space of an eyeblink, their surroundings flashed to that of the cave he'd won his life in. He banished it away at once, shaking his head, scowling. The sobbing wasn't the only thing in that cave he was desperate for her not to see.

"Neither of us would like that," he said darkly, reaching for his tunic. She put a hand out to halt him.

"I'm sorry," she said earnestly, biting her lip. "I wasn't thinking. So you won your freedom...and they let you go, just like that?"

He drew his hand back to its place on her thigh, but he was tired of the questions. Sandor sat up in full, bringing his face close to hers and twirling a lock of hair between his fingers. "They kept my gold; that made things difficult. Otherwise, aye...just like that." His voice grew low and suggestive, and he smirked to see her cheeks reddening.  _That's better._ He took her by the base of the neck and kissed her.

After a time, Sansa pulled away from him. "Can I ask about one more?"

Sandor gave a frustrated huff. "Which one?"

She shifted back so that she could put a hand on his thigh. Under any other circumstances, it would have stirred him. "What happened?"

"That's a tale for waking," Sandor told her at once. He frowned. "All of it is, in truth."

 _What am I doing?_ It soured him to be reminded that he was just talking to himself; why was he fantasizing about  _this_ , of all things? Why was he talking about his scars? Why was he determined to re-live his memories of one sister, when it was the one sitting before him he wanted to think about? Was it his own guilt nagging at him? He had avoided the subject entirely, letting the girl believe he'd been on the Quiet Isle the whole time. An omission it had been, but now it felt like a lie.

"You can tell me now," She encouraged. Sandor laughed harshly.

"Piss off. The real you gets the stories. You get the delusions."

He awoke then, seeing that as good a stopping point as any. He sat up, shaking himself from the disorientation that came between sleeping and waking. She was stirring as well; she always seemed to wake up when he did.

 _I have to tell her,_ he decided. They were only days away from arriving in Braavos, and he felt he owed it to her.

She was sitting up now. Sandor rose and went to her bedside, wanting to get it over with. "I have to confess something to you," he said, signing as always.

Sansa looked up at him, her brow creased in a mixture of confusion and contemplation; her expression turned decisive when she replied, "I have a confession to make as well."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, everyone is in on the secret except Sandor right now. Look at him! Look at him and LAUGH!


	24. Sansa 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was like standing on the edge of a cliff that overlooked the sea, arms spread wide, and having no choice but to take the plunge. There was no certainty in such a scenario, whether the water would spare you or if the rocks below would break you. _The only certainty is that you have to jump._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LAST CHAPTER OF 2015! :O
> 
> I know you had to wait a couple more days for this update, but that's because this chapter is like hella long and I only ended up making it longer when I edited it. D: I was also *very* filled with Christmas Cheer™ editing it, so I may have gone a little overboard. ENJOY!
> 
> Hope everyone had a great Christmas! My gift to you: WORDS! LOTS OF WORDS! SORRY (NOT SORRY) ABOUT ALL THE WORDS!!

 

He snorted. "You have to do something wrong in order to confess." Sansa lowered her eyes.

"I know," she said softly. His expression was of amused skepticism, not taking her seriously whatsoever. She felt only half so frustrated by that as she felt contrite; she had realized he was now aware in his dreams as she was, but he was not _truly_ aware. _He believes he's alone in his head._ It wasn't right. He would reflect differently on what he was dreaming than how she did. _I should have told him sooner,_ she chided herself. She felt as though she had violated him somehow, just like the day she had first kissed him.

"I'll go first," he was saying. She snapped her eyes back up.

"I'm going first." _This is bigger than a leg scar._ He raised his heavy eyebrows at her, as he usually did when she defied him.  She was never punished or scolded for it. In fact, her insolence seemed to make him queerly proud, for the glint in his eyes. She could say that about no one else.

"As you wish, _my lady,_ " he sneered. Sansa noted that he was calling her that more often lately, although he always said it with that slant of cynicism on his tongue. It had been days since she had been called a little bird, when before it so often punctuated his sentences. She wasn't quite sure what to make of that; was he hoping to insult her in some way, even as he was considerate in everything else? _It could be that he scorns my station and not my person,_ she thought. He'd never had a love for titles, after all _._

He stared at her as she wrung her hands in her lap, thinking. She knew she must confess, but _how?_ What could she say that he would believe? _Does it matter what he believes? It doesn't change the truth._ Another thought came to her then, one that had come to her before but had not yet been determined. _How will he respond? How much should I tell him?_ She feared the uncertainty of his reaction more than Sandor himself _;_ _he will not hurt me, and he will not leave me._ This she knew. _At least, not physically.  
_

It was like standing on the edge of a cliff that overlooked the sea, arms spread wide, and having no choice but to take the plunge. There was no certainty in such a scenario, whether the water would spare you or if the rocks below would break you. _The only certainty is that you have to jump._

She took a deep breath. "You've been dreaming about me," she told him, trying to choose her words wisely. He narrowed his eyes at her, opened his mouth to deny it. Before he could, however, she pressed on: "I've been dreaming about you, too."

Sandor blinked. Hastily he replied, "No small wonder there, confinement'll do that to you." The amusement returned to his eyes. "And underwhelming, where confessions are concerned."

 _Would it be more to your fancy to be overwhelmed?_ Sansa couldn't help but think. _Far be it from me to deny it to you._ His denial was reasonable, but all the same it was a frsutration. Already she knew his true reaction–the one that made her so wary–would first have to be exhumed from beneath a mountain of stubbornness. _Why stand on the edge and argue about the jump, when it's easier to just jump?_

"I wasn't finished," she said impatiently. Sitting a little straighter, Sansa readied herself; uncertain of how she might land, but knowing there was only one way to find out.

"You misunderstand me besides," she continued in even tones, hoping to sound older than she was. "So I will put it plainly. We dream of each other, but we dream _one_ dream." Her stomach twisted, almost painfully as she fell. "Together, not separately."

"You're barking mad," he said at once, letting out his own bark, but it was the mocking kind. It was unbelievable, and he wasn't going to believe it at first. She had anticipated that much at least. "You've had too much wine in you for too long, or otherwise all this swaying has scrambled up your wits."

Sansa frowned. "My mind is quite in order," she said stiffly, displeased with the suggestion that she was so deluded. _It was only once that my memory rang false, and he won't soon let me forget it._ "Surely you already know, only you're too unwilling to admit it?" She urged him to regard her seriously. "Surely you know your dreams are different, that it can't be _coincidence_ that we awake in tandem each day, as we do?"

Sandor waved a dismissive hand, brushing it all aside. "If people were more willing to accept _coincidence_ as an explanation for things, the world might be better for it."

It frustrated her, how fast he held to the belief that there was nothing worth believing in. It emboldened her confession, her reservations cast aside in her determination to prove him wrong. She had already taken the plunge, after all.

"I saw you at the Blackwater," Sansa blurted. "I've danced with you, I've laid with you in the grass,  and Gods be good, I've _kissed_ you times beyond counting."

That gave him pause. But it didn’t take him long to rationalize it to himself. "Similar dreams don't make them the same dreams," he remarked.

She huffed. Without warning, she yanked his robes open at the chest, making him gasp. "Oi!"

Sansa jabbed a finger at the scar there. "Gregor did that. And this one," She found another, speaking in a rush before he could interrupt her. "You earned that one when you were my age, against a man your age."

"Easy guesses," he sneered, but she could see his armor had begun to crack.

" _Guesses?_ " It came out as half a laugh. She threw up the sleeve of his left arm with her good right one. "For your brother's crimes, and one of yours. That's what you told me. You slew Beric Dondarrion in a trial by combat, but not before-."

"Enough!" He cut over her, reeling out of her grasp as sharply as if she'd burned him herself. The color had drained from his face, even the burned side. The intensity of his outburst faded as soon as it came on, however, and it was soon swallowed up by silence. He went as still as stone, but the air came alive with pure turmoil as he began to consider the truth at last. She felt inexplicably suffocated by it.

"I don't…" he looked at a loss. Sansa watched him patiently yet intently as he searched around for an answer that would not come to him. He returned his gaze on her and said, "How long?"

"At least since the night we left the Quiet Isle," She admitted. Her heart felt uncomfortable in her chest, for how hard it was beating. He was silent for a long moment again, and her stomach twisted more tightly the longer it stretched on, unknowing of what his reaction might be. _The water can't be shallow here, it can't, it can't..._

He opened his mouth, closed it again. He turned his eyes down and stared at his hands, wide and white. "Bugger me…"

_Deep water...deep water…_

His face twisted, and he stood so abruptly that it made her flinch, braced for impact. He was pacing now, back and forth, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Sansa watched him from the bed, tentatively as he went over all of it in his head, occasionally muttering curses under his breath.

When he stopped, he turned to look at her, completely overwhelmed. "I never—I wouldn't have—not you—buggering hells..." He was pacing again.

The fall had not killed her. Sansa rose, meeting him in the middle of the room. She was almost amused by how inarticulate he was. _For once._ "I know," she said gently, putting an arm out to halt him. "I was selfish, not to tell you; it wasn't right."

He was looking at her like she had two heads. "I don't understand."

"I don't fully understand either," She admitted. "But we _are_ dreaming the same dreams, and I think that means something."

"That's not what I meant," He snapped. "Why would you let—why _those_ dreams?"

She could hear the unspoken tail-end of that sentence: _Why those dreams with me?_ It was the content of the dreams, far more than their existence, that he was struggling to comprehend just now.

"Because I liked them," Sansa said, as though it were as simple as that. _And so did you._ She had never much liked kissing, before now.

He made a derisive sound in reply, and Sansa suspected it was to hide the choking sound that had come before it. "You haven't kissed enough men, then."

"I've kissed more lips than you have," she reminded him pointedly. _Way more._ That wiped that look off his face.

"So, what then?" He asked roughly. "What am I supposed to do with this, what does it mean?"

It was as close to acceptance as he would allow, she knew. She welcomed the shift of focus. "I believe this is a sign," She said emphatically. Sansa believed it was bigger than that, but she didn't want to overburden him with sentimentality just now.

"A sign? From whom, the _Gods_?" He sneered. "Are you sure it isn't Elder Brother you're so _connected_ with?"

"What would your explanation for it be, then?" She asked, genuinely interested as she was frustrated.

"Search me," He shrugged irritably. "But I don't take every oddity as divine intervention, either."

"You mock my faith, yet you have nothing useful to say." Sansa said with reproach. "We have a secret language, with both our hands and our minds. I think we're intended to speak it." _We can always be together, even if we can't be._

"So you think your Gods intended for me to _fuck_ you in your dreams, is that it?" He asked harshly, unexpectedly. "So it won't matter whose bed you're thrown into next, so long as you've got your dog waiting for you in your head?" He looked disgusted. "Do you think that's something I would want for you? Or for _myself,_ for that matter?"

Sansa inclined her chin up, refusing to be cowed by such implications. He had grown far kinder since he'd left the capital, but she was no stranger to his unkindness either. _Only now I have better armor._ Courtesy would get her nowhere with this man, but luckily she was half a bastard now, and she knew how to speak with a bastard's tongue as well.

"I've had no such dreams," she reminded him crisply. "But it hasn't been for lack of trying on your part, has it?"

He was scowling at her now. "There would have been, believe me," he said, his tone low with barely contained fury. "Were it not for a lack of _knowing_."

Sansa lowered her eyes at that, shame striking her like a slap in the face. It was precisely why she had deceived him, and precisely why she had dreaded the confession. _This could be the part where I drown._ She had wanted the walls to come down, had wanted _him;_ she had tried to take what she wanted without asking, however. It had felt innocent enough at the time. Had she learned nothing?

"It was wrong of me," she repeated quietly. "I'm no better than Petyr, for what I've done. I see that now." Saying it aloud made her throat grow tight, the thought being almost more than she could bear just now.

Abruptly, he forced her chin up with one huge hand, and she was met with a face hardened by anger. The index finger of his free hand was pointed accusingly at her, even as his face was so close. It was terrible to behold, and she felt the stirrings of old fears he had put in her before, a lifetime ago, as she looked into his eyes. He looked _furious_. "Pull your head out, girl," he said through clenched teeth. "You're wrong on your own merit, and I'm wrong on mine. But keep that name out of your mouth."

She looked into his eyes, and the fear began to leave her as quickly and quietly as it had gripped her. _It's not me he's angry with,_ she realized. _Not truly; he's angry because he feels tricked; cheated, somehow. He's angry with himself for not figuring it out sooner. He's angry because he doesn't understand, and thinks I don't either. He's angry that I'm perhaps not as innocent as I should be, and he's angry that there's anything else I could be, most of all to him._ Sansa could not describe how that made her feel, to understand these things so perfectly in that moment, while simultaneously resenting them. _There's too much he needs assuring of, and words are as good as wind._

He released her, looking around as though searching for something to say. Sansa blinked a few times, readjusting her vision as though she'd been staring into the sun too long. He was facing away from her, staring out of the porthole when he spoke again. "Too good to be true, I thought...it turns out it was the other way around." A humorless laugh rumbled out of him. "I knew something wasn't right; I just didn't suspect sorcery."

"Sorcery?" A burst of laughter escaped her, surprising them both. "You'll believe in magic before you'll believe in Gods?"

Sandor's eyes had a knowing, ominous look in them when he turned to look at her. "I've seen magic with mine own eyes. Magic is as real as dragons. Someone knows we're here."

 _I've asked him to accept plenty of it today, but that is pure nonsense._ "To what end would a sorcerer unite our dreams?" She challenged him, almost mockingly. Sansa hadn't known what to expect from his reaction, but she had to admit she hadn't expected this. _He would suggest I'm delusional, but if this is something he truly believes, he is the crow mocking the raven's feathers._

"To what end would _gods_?" he lashed back.  “As far as we know, someone can see all that we've seen, and is using us to gather information.”

That made her laugh. “Well, if there’s any truth to that, we’ve deprived them of anything useful thus far.”

Sandor didn’t think it was quite so funny. “They’ll know where we’re headed. What we look like. They’ll know our weaknesses.”

Sansa considered that. Yet she still felt resolved. “Let them know, then,” she told him. “And let them come. Let us be ready for them when they do, and let them feel sorry they ever tried.”

“Bold words,” he replied, mouth twitching. “Could you be so brave, should it ever come to that?”

"I will be ready to find out. I refuse to live by someone else’s terms, and cower in the shadow of someone else’s power. Not anymore.”

For a long moment, Sandor made no reply. He seemed to be considering her words, and the revelation at large, thoughtfully.

The silence dragged on and on. Finally Sansa said, "If you truly believe something sinister is afoot, say the word. We will sleep in shifts."

His eyes softened somewhat, but it did not meet his mouth, still tight and cruel, frowning down at her. The prospect did not please him, she knew, but neither did the idea of admitting it. "Have you learned nothing?" He asked roughly, advancing a step in her direction. "Things like this don't just happen at random, and the cause is _always_ sinister."

"It isn't random, on that we agree," she told him. "But neither is it sinister, Gods or no. I would stake my life on that."

"What makes you so certain?" He asked. Another step. He was close as Sansa considered him, and gave the answer that came to her first.

"Instinct."

He didn't seem to have a response prepared for that, but it told her more than words could manage. _He feels it too._ It gave her confidence, and so she went on, to spare him the effort of thinking up some droll retort.

"I don't know what it means," she admitted. _Or what the Gods intend._ "But there are things I _do_ know."

He made no reply but to look at her, unconvinced but inviting her to elaborate. Sansa set her jaw, not giving him cause to suspect doubts or lies. "I know I would rather have the man in my head than one in my bed, regardless of what it all might mean," she told him. "I know I will _never_ marry again."

He seemed to find his voice once more. "What makes you think you'll have a choice in that matter?" He asked darkly, stooping down to her eye level. Her neck was grateful.

Sansa smiled then, for she already knew that answer too. It disarmed him somewhat, for the way his eyebrows went up. "Because you'll cut the arm off any man who tries to claim me," she said simply, taking his face in her hands. _Or I'll take my own life, before handing it over to another again._ She would not say such things aloud, however. She hoped it was a thought she would never need entertain.

It was strange how she could feel his burned half better than his other side now, for her benumbed left arm. _And he can feel that hand better than my good one_ , she mused. The arm still pained her to move, but it was a dull ache, and worth the effort.

If there were any chairs available to him, Sandor would have needed to sit in one, for how overwhelmed he appeared. Instead, he just stared at her, searching. Was he looking for lies, as he usually did? What was he hoping to see?

"Fuck me," he said softly, returning to his full height and out of her grasp. "I should have gone first."

Sansa blinked. She had forgotten he had something to confess as well. "I'm sure it won't be half so surprising," She said lightly, hoping it would lighten him. It didn't.

"Sit down," he instructed. Sansa obeyed, sitting at the foot of the pallet bed, waiting. He stooped in front, a serious look on his face. It made him look older than he was.

"Since you know half the story already, I'll just come out with it." He murmured. Sansa watched him with mounting curiosity and apprehension.

"The butcher's boy's friend, at my trial. Any guesses to who that might have been?"

A name came to mind, of course, but it seemed too absurd to entertain. "I didn't know many of his friends."

"You knew _one_." He eyed her knowingly, waiting for her to come to it on her own. _Could it truly be?  
_

"She was there?" She asked in a hushed voice, the matter of Gods and dreams already behind her. She had been wrong to assume his confession would not shock her; her head was spinning. "What happened? Tell me everything, tell me the truth. Is she dead? Please..."

Sandor put a hand up. "I don't know where she is now, or if she lives." He admitted. "Didn't have her for long, truth be told."

"I don't understand; tell me all of it. You took her?"

"Aye," he confirmed. "I wanted my coin back, and interest for my arm. I never got the coin back, but I found her sneaking around in the woods, so I took her instead." He snorted. "She didn't like it much. She wanted me dead when we met, she wanted me dead when we parted ways. I got this," he pulled back the sleeve of this left arm. "Before I took her; and this," He put a hand at his thigh, "Before she left me." He laughed. "One sister grants me mercy, the other refuses it."

Sansa felt overwhelmed. "Why'd you take her?" It was the first thing she could think to ask. She had been the one to put him on trial for the butcher's boy, after all.

"You know why." _He knew I would want him to._ "I told her I meant to ransom her." He laughed low to himself. "It would have been a benefit, anyway; I meant to take her to your mother and brother, and I meant to join them if they'd have me."

"What happened?" Sansa's eyes were wide, hanging onto his every word. _He wanted to fight for Robb._

"They died." He scowled at the memory. "I got her there just in time to watch it all go to shit. I had to put the blunt of my axe to the girl's head before I could get her out of there."

It was still painful, even after all this time. Just the mention of the Red Wedding was enough to sting the eyes. They had _been_ there...had seen it all first-hand. If Sansa had felt utterly broken by the news, what must it have done to her sister, to live it? "Oh, Arya…" 

He continued, the words bitter on his tongue. "Couldn't take her to Riverrun, couldn't go to the Eyrie either, on account of your Aunt's death. If I had known…" His scowl deepened. "Doesn't matter now, does it? We went from village to village, just to keep food in our bellies and shelters over our heads. I failed her, though, in the end. As I failed you."

"You didn't fail me," Sansa put in, but he ignored her.

"We ran into a couple of my brother's men at the Crossroads. We made it out with our lives, but not without something to remember them by." he gestured to the leg; she recalled the memory of him standing naked in the washtub, when she had seen so many of his scars for the first time. That one had been perhaps the ugliest, and explained all the limping. The flesh was puckered and warped around the large, crater-like wound that had healed there long ago, but it hadn't healed cleanly. "Damn thing got so infected I couldn't sit a horse," he explained, noticing her gaze. "Elder Brother wanted to take the entire leg. I told him he could try."

"What happened? Was Arya hurt as well?" She asked, clutching her heart as she tried to imagine it, hoping the answer wouldn't break it.

"Just me," He replied. "She never got over her butcher's boy, and that's when she ran off; left me to die slow rather than finish me off quick. And die I did, beneath a tree on the bank of the Trident, if you ask Elder Brother. If you ask me, I died in that inn."

Sansa felt relief and despair all at once; her sister had been unharmed, but neither was she here. "Is that when you went to Elder Brother?"

He snorted. "I couldn't sit a horse, let alone walk; _he_ found _me_ , waiting for the end to come. He took my confessions, and in return he took me to the Isle, not that I ever asked or wanted him to."

"The Gods had other plans," She whispered. _Oh, if only Arya had stayed..._

"You sound just like him," He said irritably, mouth twitching. "She was my first confession. Your sister. I wanted her to end it, I told her everything. I accepted my fate eventually, deserved it even..." He laughed low in his throat. "She would shit herself twice if she knew I still live. That would teach her a hard lesson in mercy, wouldn't it?"

"If she's alive at all..." Tears were stinging her eyes again at the mere thought of it, but Sansa fought to keep them back. "She was always so _willful_ , she never should have gone on her own. She should've known you wouldn't harm her." _She shouldn't have left you to die alone._ Elder Brother could have taken them both, and all three of them could be on this boat together.

Sandor nodded in agreement. "Willful, aye, and wild. She didn't fear me, though, least of all in the end. It was retribution she sought by riding off, not safety. That one knows how to hold a grudge as well as a sword."

Sansa smiled in spite of herself. _That sounds like her._ She had hated her sister once, had wished for a sister more like Margaery Tyrell, someone she could do needlework and whisper gossip with, to giggle and dance and sing with, play dolls with. Arya had never been that sister, had always been more like a brother instead, when she already had enough of those. She knew now that there were far worse things in the world than boyish little sisters, however, things far more deserving of her scorn. Sansa thought of Arya and felt nothing but shame, and regret. _I was unkind to her; she will never know the Sansa who has Alayne, or Sandor without the Hound. She will never know I love her. Did she die with a grudge in her heart for me as well?_

"I wouldn't be so quick to think her dead," Sandor was saying, as though to read her thoughts. "That is to say, the little wolf bitch can hold her own."

"Don't call her that," Sansa blurted at once. Then she added, unable to suppress the hope in her voice, "You think she could be alive somewhere, even on her own? Do you think we could find her?"

"Once you return home, I wager she'll find _you,"_ he replied. "She can survive on her own; she does more than mark the men she puts a blade to." Pointedly he added, "You could learn a thing or two there."

"She's killed people?" Sansa asked, disturbed. "She's only a girl."

"That one was more wolf than girl," Sandor remarked. "You don't survive as she's had to without acquiring a taste for blood, believe me."

Sansa bit her lip. "Could you show me, in dreams? I want to see her, as you did." _I want to know her._ "We can skip the fire," She added hastily when his face began to split into a frown.

"That's not the most bothersome part of that idea." He replied irritably. Seeing the questioning look on her face, he clarified. "The _dreams_. It's not right."

Sansa resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "We cannot control the dreams, only what happens in them."

He was silent for a long moment as he considered that. "There are things I've done-–things I've said-–the wolf girl was right to hate me, I did her no favors. You might see that...might be, you'll see me how she did." For once, it didn't seem like something he wished.

Sansa took one of his massive hands and placed it gingerly to her chest, where she'd been cut above her heart. "If you will have faith in nothing else," She said solemnly. "Please, have some in me." Smiling, she added, "My sister and I never saw eye to eye besides."

It made her chest ache to even joke of Arya, sick with not knowing what had become of her. Sansa had a graveyard in her soul, where she had laid her family to rest; it was often too painful to visit. Unearthing her sister had given her a new sense of grief, but that flicker of hope in her chest made it worthwhile. _I_ will _find her_ , she told herself. _Alive or dead, whatever her fate may be; but I will find her, and bring her home to Winterfell, where she belongs. No matter what._ It was important to remain realistic, even if she was hopeful. Sansa knew to brace herself for the worst. And yet, something in the pit of her stomach told her to hang on to hope.

But first she wanted to know her; to _see_ her, hear her voice and understand what she'd endured. She shouldn't expect to see any happy memories, for the expression on Sandor's face; but Sansa knew it might be her only opportunity to see her sister alive again. _For better or worse, it would be better than nothing at all._

Sandor was staring at their hands, a thoughtful expression on his face. He then shook his head, laughing softly to himself. "I suppose I should," He conceded in a low voice. "You've seen me at my worst, yet here you sit."

"I've seen you at your best as well," she pointed out.

"Be that as it may," he grunted. "You deserve better still."

 _Just as willful as she was. Is._ "No one ever gets what they deserve," Sansa reminded him. "I'd rather get what I want."

He looked up at her sharply. " _Is_ that what you want?" He asked, his tone suddenly stern. "If there were no gods, if there were other paths...can you truly say you'd have made the same choice?"

"Yes," she said without hesitation. "I already did, long ago. I was faithless when Elder Brother pulled me from the mud; even then my path was set, and my choice was made." It wasn't by chance that she had found her way there, that she had found _him_ there. But that's what he would call it, she knew. _And geography too, probably._ Sansa wanted to shake him, to tell him about the Ravens that had urged her to go, remind him of the wolves that had killed Vale men in the snow, but never them. But those were not things he would believe, and so she settled on things he might.

"I thought the Gods had cursed me, when they gave me to the Imp. When I became Alayne, I thought they had abandoned me altogether. The longer my prayers went unanswered, the more I suspected they must not exist at all. How could they let such suffering befall the innocent, and let the monsters reign so triumphant?" She thought of Lady, who had been innocent but Cersei had ordered her dead anyway. She thought of Bran and Rickon, mere children, murdered by a man they trusted. She thought of Robb and her lady mother, of her father, of Sweetrobin, of all the nameless women and children, the common people who had met unspeakable fates in a war they did not have a say in. She even thought of Joffrey, and her aunt Lysa, of Harry and Dontos and all the rest, everyone who had fallen victim to Littlefinger's schemes in the end, regardless of their guilt. She thought of Jeyne Poole, of the day she'd been brought to her room in the Red Keep. _Sandor was supposed to kill her that day,_ she reflected. _But he spared her instead, showed her mercy._ What was it that _Petyr_ had shown her friend?

"Indeed," Sandor was agreeing. "And none of that has changed, or will."

"Perhaps," Sansa bowed her head. "But it did occur to me at last, something I had failed to understand before."

"There's only one thing to understand about _gods,"_ he said bitterly. "They're just as cruel as men, and as fallible besides."

"It's not their purpose, to right all wrongs," she replied.

" _Some_ wrongs might suffice," He rasped. "You speak of choices and things desired, but you are letting these _gods_ do the choosing; you're still not free, not truly."

"The Gods watch us, they listen and they guide us on our way," Sansa explained, keeping her voice calm. "But they cannot make our choices for us; they do not have that power."

His mouth twitched. "But it is your gods who make the men who choose," he pointed out.

"Is the blacksmith to blame," she challenged him, "when one of his swords is used to slaughter rather than defend?"

Sandor snorted. "I've never met a smith who cares one way or the other how his steel is used, so long as he gets his due." He shook his head. "What you describe are parents, not gods. What a wicked man deserves is a noose around his throat, not a mother's teat in his mouth."

Sansa let out a frustrated sigh. There was no convincing him, she knew, not on this. She remembered what he had said of penitence, and supposed the same must be true of faith as well. _It is a path one must walk alone._ She had seen the proof she needed, but the effort in telling him so would be a waste; words would not save a drowning man, should he ever take that plunge from a very high cliff.

"Even so," she conceded. "It's not the Gods I mean to convince you of, not truly."

"If you've got a point, then, get to making it," he said irritably.

She did so, and gladly. "When I was on the mountain," she began, "I was Alayne by day; happy, and surrounded by those who would claim to love me. I had a father, a husband, a cousin, guards...It was an empty comfort, though; tainted, and one that did not truly belong to me. My skin crawled when they touched me; I was not Alayne, they did not love me, and they were not my people." Sansa remembered it well, the constant conflict between her selves, of trying to bury Sansa in her heart along with the rest of the Starks. But for all her efforts, it had been no good. Sansa refused to die, and asserted her existence on Alayne each and every night.

"I was plagued with dreadful nightmares," she went on. "Not Alayne's, but mine. I always awoke in contentment, however, never despair. Do you know why that was?"

He only watched her, waiting. Sansa had not expected a reply. "No matter how horrible they were...in the end, before I woke, I was saved; pulled away from it all, into something sweeter."

At first, she'd thought it was because he was the only ally she could think of who hadn't died yet. Then she'd heard about Saltpans, had supposed him dead...she suspected her sleeping mind was merely grieving the loss of the only soul who had ever protected her, with nothing to gain. But now she knew the dreams were more than that, perhaps more than she could understand. _The Gods would not let me forget him,_ she thought. And if it was mere protection they wanted her to have of him, surely the contents of those dreams would have been different.

Sansa smiled. "It was _you_ I dreamed of." _You alone can touch me, and my instincts sing rather than bristle up._ She found a massive shoulder with her hand, squeezed it lightly. She felt the muscles there grow tight.

"I dreamed of you, and now I dream with you. By the will of Gods or by magic, it makes no matter; I ask you: how could it be something sinister, when all it's done is lessen our suffering?"

Sandor was staring at her, his eyes hard and unrelenting in their intensity. Sansa could not make out what his expression might mean; it had become a mask, as if he knew she might try to read it. He chewed the inside of his cheek as he stared at her, and Sansa wished he would say something, _anything._

And then, at long last, he stood. "I decide now," he said gruffly. Sansa was staring at him in open confusion. She made to rise, but he put out a hand. "If we are to have these dreams, so be it. I'll show you what I remember of your buggering sister, too. But no more of this…" He seemed unable to form the words. "I decide now, what happens. You hear me?"

It was not the response she would have wanted, and she felt foolish that she would have expected anything more or less. They had the same desires, she had experienced as much for herself. _It is our willingness to embrace such things that differs, however._ Did a dog have honor? Or was it only a matter of faith, or lack thereof? The walls had come back up, and only patience would give her answers now.

Even so, Sansa felt half a child again as she crossed her arms over her chest, unable to hide the rueful expression on her face. _I shouldn't have told him,_ she thought petulantly, irrationally. But all the same, she nodded her head, and consented to his terms.

There were worse places to wash up, after all.


	25. Sandor 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Much had changed in only a couple of moon turns; much could change still, and would.

They spent that last day aboard the ship above deck, for Sansa didn't want to miss seeing the Titan of Braavos when they arrived. Her wound was a fortnight healed by now, and she was able to move around more easily. Her arm was still clumsy, however; Sandor made attempts to discourage her from using it, but she refused. She had mended her ruined robes for practice, but it had been an effort. She spent most of the time frowning at her stitching—starting over any time she didn't get one straight—or when she pricked her numb fingers without realizing it.

Sandor gripped the railing hard, trying to stop his stomach from churning. He couldn't be sure if it was the seasickness or anxiety that brought him such discomfort now. _Or both._

How rapidly his life had changed in only a couple of moon turns. He never would have believed _this_ would be what his life would amount to; _who_ it would amount with. That she would _want_ him, or any of this.

He had spent the last few nights showing her her sister in dreams; he'd been altogether reluctant to do so before, but now...it was safer. Sandor had taken advantage of the opportunity to shift the focus of the dreams, and showed her every small thing he remembered, even if it was only a memory of them riding in silence for hours. He dreaded running out. He wondered how long she would tolerate reliving his time at the Quiet Isle, which had been even more monotonous.

No matter how awful the memory of his past self was, the recollections of her sister did not sour the girl to him at all; it made him feel equal parts frustration and relief. He felt just as unworthy of her as Gregor was of knighthood; would that be the legacy of his house? Men getting what they want regardless of earning it? It felt like a slap in the face to his forebears; empty and unfair. Sometimes, however, he almost believed her when she said it was  _ right _ . It felt as natural as breathing, it was true; simultaneously, it felt as unnatural as a dog walking on its hind legs.

Sandor still could not accept the dreams as they had been, not now. They had been something harmless before, something secret and sacred. It shamed him that he'd let his guard down, even in slumber.  _ Any sense of security is a false sense of security,  _ his father had said once. Or had it been Tywin?

As much as he preferred the dreams, he was burdened with a sense of right and wrong, which was stronger now than it had ever been. Elder Brother had put his faith in him; wasn't that worth something, for the man who had granted him a second chance at life? What would that old man think, if Sandor acted on his desires and lost sight of his duty?

_Dreams aren't enough._ She wanted to play at being his lady love, it seemed, but all he could amount to was a dirty secret, locked away inside her head. They both knew it, but he was not so prepared to accept such a thing. Even if he did deserve her, even if he could keep the two realities separate...he knew his place. _At her side, not in her bed._ The dreams had blurred that line, but he was determined not to lose sight of it.

He made sure not to repeat the scenarios from before, but even so, his mind was still plagued with the memories. There was no escape, no reprieve; every time he looked at her, he remembered. _Did you think atonement would be easy?_ Elder Brother mocked in his ear. _No,_ came his desperate reply. _I accepted the challenge, I did; just not like this._ Sandor had known that confining himself to her would tempt him, but he never suspected _she_ would be doing the tempting.

She could never give him just a piece; he would always want more. He would want it all. These dreams were a blessing to her mind, but a curse in his. He still didn't know what to make of them. _What sort of magic could do such a thing?_ She had called it the work of gods; just the thought put a sour taste in his mouth. _If there are gods, they are cruel to tempt me as they have._ A test, Elder Brother would be calling it. He resented the notion. Hadn't the girl been used enough? _If atonement is a path I must walk alone, why use her as my obstacle, urging me to turn around?_

 _I'll never take her,_ he told himself, for the hundredth time. _But I'll never let anyone else take her, either._ He knew that for a certainty; much had changed, but he was still a dog, and a distrustful one at that. Was there a man alive who he could suffer to claim her? _No,_ he knew. _Not a man alive, or dead besides._ She knew it, too. _That's what she wants, or so she says right now._ Much had changed; much could change still, and would. _A hungry wolf does not stay hungry long, once it gets the scent of meat._ And what then? He didn't like to think on it.

She _was_ a wolf, there was no doubt about that. Not like her sister, yet not unlike her either. He had bitten into her neck in one of his dreams, and the sound she'd made, _Gods_...and she would bite him back. Sandor had thought it was a version of Sansa he'd made up—a fantasy and nothing more—but then he'd come to find that it was the same Sansa standing next to him, gazing out over the choppy water, clutching a cloak about her for warmth. How could she look so pure— _be_ so pure—while also being such a little beast? How did she do it? Why was this happening?

He would never be good enough for her; but he would never deny her anything she wanted of him, either, if she asked it. _Within reason._ He would never take from her anything she wasn't ready to give. Whatever came next, he would confront it when he came to it. Sandor had never been the one leading them, not truly. She held the reins. He would continue to follow her, from here to there, anywhere; to the end of the world and back, if that's what it took.

Sandor watched her in silence, just as lost in thought as himself. _I have never hated anyone so much as I love her,_ he realized. _Not even myself._ To say that the feeling was strange would be an understatement, but it was profound as well. She turned to face him, feeling his stare. Her eyes were large and blue and smiling; she enjoyed being on the deck, he knew.

 _'I can't wait to see land,'_ she signed. He snorted.

 _'You and I both,'_ he agreed. The sooner his feet were on solid ground, the better. _'Stranger too, poor bastard.'_

There would be no fields for him to run free in; Braavos was mostly stone and sea, with hundreds of tiny islands separated by narrow canals. Sandor would be sure to give him time to stretch his legs, but it wouldn't be much. He entertained the idea of breeding him while they were here, to give the beast some sort of small relief. _Might be I would even keep a foal, if we're here long enough._

The closer they got, the more Sandor began to think about their situation. The slash at her chest was a grim reminder that he wouldn't always be able to prevent her suffering, and he was reminded every time he looked on her. Their world was about to get a lot more populated, and they still had enemies besides, possibly meddling with their minds. What was it she had said? _Let them come. Let us be ready for them when they do._ Sandor tended to agree, so he decided he would teach the girl something new. Still with her hands, but the gestures would be different. _I can’t always protect her. But I can prepare her._ _And she will have plenty of time to learn._

Suddenly there was a gasp at his side, and Sandor looked down to see Sansa pointing excitedly at the horizon. He was amused by her enthusiasm, and when he followed her line of sight, he knew the cause: the Titan had come into view at last, though not so grand from this distance. It was but a speck on the horizon, yet it was the herald of things to come, and quickly taking shape. He looked down as she linked her left arm through his right, leaning her head against him, sighing. Sandor almost pushed her away—not thinking it appropriate behavior for a Silent Sister—but they were close to the end of their journey now. The ruse was almost over. He was anxious to be on solid ground.

_ 'Won't be long now, Nedra,' _ He signed, using her new name. It didn't feel right, but hoped he could get used to it. She shook lightly with silent laughter.

_'What will Stranger's new name be?'_

He already had an answer to that. _'Driftwood, of course.'_ Elder Brother would like that.

Awhile later, Sansa let out an audible 'Oh…' as they passed under the massive stone Titan of Braavos; Sandor found it to be impressive as well, but there was no competing with the look of wonder in her eyes. He watched her take in her new surroundings as they drifted towards Ragman's Harbor, where they would disembark at last. The city always seemed small on maps, but in person it felt quite massive. The Braavosi wasted no inch of land, it would seem, for the buildings were so close together you could barely fit a horse between most of them. Everything was stone and water and fog here, but for the look on her face, one would think Sansa saw a splendid field of wildflowers.

 _'Come,'_ Sandor instructed. _'Let's gather our things.'_

By the time they had packed up and retrieved Stranger, the ship was pulling into the harbor. Most of the passengers and crewmen were on deck, anxious as they were to see the end of the voyage. Sandor made to lift Sansa in the saddle, but she protested, signing that she wished to walk. _'Don't wander off, then.'_ he signed back.

In reply, she linked her right arm through his left. He rolled his eyes at her before gripping the reins tighter in-hand, leading the horse off the ship in the midst of the other passengers. Stranger tried to snap a few times, but Sandor was quick to act each time, and everyone made it to land with their ears intact.

As the girl looked around in interest, Sandor kept a shrewd eye on his surroundings; there could still be plenty of Westerosi about who might recognize them. Once they were deeper in the city, it would be easier to blend in. Yet there was no dye that could conceal the distinct burns on his face; he would have to be mindful. He hoped most would be convinced by his story that the dragonfire was the culprit behind the burns; surely there were more burned men walking the world today than before. 

The harbor was buzzing with activity; merchants boasting about their wares, naked children being chased by their mothers, fishermen hauling in the catch of the day. None gave them a passing glance.

"First thing we do," He said from the corner of his mouth, as both his hands were occupied. "Find an alley, get out of our robes. Then we'll find an inn."

Finding an alley wasn't hard, nor was privacy an issue. Sandor lead Stranger into one and they silently undid their robes, revealing the common clothes they had donned underneath. They each only had one spare outfit to them, but that wouldn't be a problem once he found work. Sandor untied his hair and hastily brushed it so that it mostly concealed his burned half, and Sansa was re-braiding hers.

Once the robes were stuffed into their bags, Sandor shrugged into a cloak, then draped one over her shoulders.  “Ready?” 

Sansa was distracted, looking at something behind him. She quickly snapped out of it and smiled, taking his arm in hers again. Sandor eyed her questioningly as she looked over her shoulder once more before they cleared the alley.

“Spy something shiny?” He asked. 

“A beggar, I think,” Sansa replied, turning her eyes forward again. “They had their hood up, but seemed so young. Too young...and hungry."

"They won't get anything from us," Sandor laughed. He didn't feel pity for complete strangers the way she did. They barely had enough coin to put a roof over their own heads for a few nights. "But they have the right of it. Hoods up, girl."

They swept off down the narrow lane, losing themselves in the bustling crowd. The disgusted stares had returned now that his face was on display to the world once more, yet he was surprised to realize that it bothered him not at all. All Sandor had to do was look down, and he’d find the only set of eyes that mattered. 


	26. Sansa 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How could she have expected him to remain on the floor? How could she have expected that she wouldn't want him to?

It had taken them some time to find an inn to stay at. There was a language barrier to contend with, and cost was a concern as well. They ultimately took up residence in a place called The Green Eel, for it was clean but still modest enough to afford. It was also a benefit that the Inkeeper had a daughter who spoke the common tongue. Her name was Aneesa, and of an age with Sansa. _Ursula._ She had dark hair and dark eyes, with rich bronze skin and a smattering of freckles across her cheeks and nose. Her father doted on her, she observed. It made her smile. They spoke briefly when her companion left to stable Stranger, and she decided she liked her.

Once inside the room, she felt free; genuinely so, for the first time in a long time. It seemed to strike her then, all at once. _I will not have to pretend anymore, not all the time._ She still had to spend half of her days pretending, but Sansa supposed it would always be like that, in some regard. _Everyone has two sides,_ she told herself. _Everyone pretends._ Perhaps one day she would pretend to be the Queen Winterfell deserved, rather than the only one left to her. She could do that; she had pretended worse things before. Harder things. She had pretended to love Joffrey, and hate her brother Robb. She had pretended to be Alayne Stone, pretended to love Petyr and Harry and almost Aegon...she had begun to think she would always have to hate half of herself, with the true Sansa locked away in silence. That was all different now; she was _not_ a captive. She had a voice now, and more space to spread her wings.

Before disembarking, it had felt as though the journey were coming to an end. But now, she realized, it was only just beginning. The idea was both thrilling and frightening all at once. They would take this night to settle in and wash up, and on the morrow Sandor— _Fyngal now_ —would seek work. It occurred to her that they might be here for a very long time, and now the reality of that was becoming more conceivable. _We could be here so long, we learn the language,_ she thought. They were to submerge themselves here, not remain isolated. What if she _enjoyed_ living here, and never wanted to leave? Would she be selfless enough to go back to a world that had only brought her pain? Was this Sansa's opportunity to reject her claim and the misery that came with it, in favor of living a common life, a happy life? _I have a bastard's heart now, I could do it…_

But she wouldn't. Just the thought of never seeing Winterfell again pained her; it felt as though it was calling out to her, loudest in the moments just before sleep became her, but not in her ears. _I feel it from my skin to my bones._ The call of her birthright was in her blood, the blood of Winterfell. She _would_ go home, there was no other choice she could live with. Elder Brother had told her that she would _know_ when the time was right to return. What did that mean? _How_ would she know? _When?_ They had only just arrived; there was no use in dwelling on it. Whether their time here was long or short, she sought to _enjoy_ it.

Sansa spun gracefully and fell backwards onto the bed in their new room, giggling and relishing the comfort of it. "It has a frame and everything," she sighed, eyes sliding closed. "I didn't think I would miss that so much."

"Might be you could even get used to it," said Sandor, absentmindedly opening drawers and touching things as he inspected the new space. The accommodations were modest, but comfortable. There was a dressing table, a mirror, two bedside cabinets, a small table with two chairs pushed underneath, and a modest hearth to warm them. _And a proper bed. And solid ground._

Sitting up, Sansa patted the spot next to her, feet dangling over the edge. "Come, sit. It's wonderful."

He gazed over at her, an amused expression on his face as he defied her, pulling out a chair and taking a seat there instead. "I'll take your word for it," he remarked.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sansa laughed, taking his meaning. "There is room for two to sleep here comfortably, and you've been sleeping on the floor for a moon's turn."

"And I will continue to do so," he replied, crossing his arms over his chest. They glared at each other.

He had been keeping her at arm's length since learning about the dreams, as Sansa suspected he might. He had dragged his recollections of her sister out on purpose. He would show her needlessly long scenes of mundane events, such as them riding in silence or collecting firewood for hours. She understood, however. Had she not done the same thing, when she had first begun to consider him in this way? _That was before the dreams, though; before I decided not to marry, before I felt him kiss me without hesitation._ Things were different now. She didn't know what she wanted exactly, but she didn't want it to be like this. _Not here. Not now._ Over the last days of their voyage, she had convinced herself that once they settled in at Braavos, they would begin sharing a bed. It hadn't seemed so absurd a notion at the time, somehow. There was no telling how long they would be here, after all, and she knew they only had enough silver to afford one room; how could she have expected him to remain on the floor? How could she have expected that she wouldn't want him to?

"I've slept by your side before," she pointed out, the memory of sleeping directly on him coming to the surface."What makes this so different?"

"The difference between _want_ and _need_ ," he sneered. "It's everything. And it's inappropriate."

Sansa couldn't stop herself; she laughed. "When have you ever cared about what's appropriate?"

He did not share in her mirth. Sandor was scowling at her as he said, "Right around the time you stopped, seems to me."

Her smile faded. "I have been the subject of much that I would call _inappropriate_ ," she said sharply, for he had cut her. "It would seem to _me_ that what the world deems proper is wrong, and so it is up to me to determine what is right for myself."

"Be that as it may," he rose, but went for the door rather than to her. He had lost his anger, but none of his austerity. "Your determinations are still wrong. Now drop it, girl; your bath will be drawn up soon."

Sansa opened her mouth to argue, but he ducked out of the room before she could frame a sentence. She flung herself back on the bed, a frustrated shriek muffled in her throat. He was so…so _stubborn_. Did he still think her a child, the fragile little bird? It didn't seem so, but why then was he so thoroughly against something so simple, that they both so clearly wanted? She was selfish, she knew, but she learned that she would have to be if she ever wanted anything for herself. _And I can be stubborn, too._

The water arrived after a time, and Sansa sighed as she lowered herself into it. As frustrated as she felt, the warmth was soothing. _And I can soak as long as I like,_ she thought, smiling. They would no longer have to share the water. This place felt like a luxurious palace in contrast to how she had been living these last couple of months. She didn't hold any ill will for those accommodations, however; she would do it all over again, exactly the same way. She would rather sleep among dogs than lords. _Can't he see that? Haven't I told him as much?_

 _It's inappropriate._ The words still nettled her. Had they not surpassed the boundary between appropriate and inappropriate long before now? In truth, each time they had, it had been the result of Sansa's own impulses...but she knew it was not for a lack of mutual desire on his part. Since the first time she had kissed him, pinned against Stranger's midsection, the line had been crossed. She had continued to draw new lines thereafter, and then crossed those as well. Even so, it never felt _wrong_. Some instinct inside her was pushing her onward, not away. Where was _his_ line, though? She had never thought to ask. Maybe she should; and yet, the lines he drew for himself didn't have a basis in sense. _Everything has to be deserved,_ she thought bitterly. He obsessed over that notion the way she had obsessed over her stories. _And he thinks he knows what I deserve better than I do. Well, he knows nothing._

No one had ever called her marriage to Tyrion Lannister _inappropriate_ , when there had been nothing about it that was. No one had ever told Petyr Baelish that kissing his daughter the way he did was _inappropriate_. No one had ever made an effort to put an end to the inappropriate ways Joffrey treated her. Only ladies were ever criticized for their inappropriate behaviors, it seemed to her, while men were free to act as they pleased, free of scorn. _How inappropriate is that?_ If anything was ever inappropriate, Sansa put sharing a bed with a man who loved her—who wouldn't harm her—at the bottom of that list. Certainly, the Gods were with her on this matter besides; they wouldn't bring them together in the ways they had, if only for the singular purpose of his protection. It was a difficult point to argue, however, to a man who had no belief in such forces he could not witness with his eyes. He barely had any trust in the dreams, it was clear enough, despite how very real they were. To Sansa, the dreams were a second world, a place where she could live a different life––a separate life––all her own. Sandor only saw the dreams as a vulnerability he was determined not to expose. _Again, anyway._ The dreams were both too real and too unreal for comfort. He wanted _one_ reality, not two.

The wall had come back up, much to Sansa's dismay, although she noted it wasn't quite so tall as before. In fact, the walls only seemed highest in dreams now, rather than before, when it was the only time they came down. The differences were small, but they were nonetheless felt. Cold and distant in dreams, warm and gentle awake. _Why? He isn't angry with me,_ she thought. _I'd feel it if he was._ He wasn't terribly skilled at masking his anger besides.

Of course, she was not so naïve; she understood that there was more to it than sleeping proximity, perhaps more than she was prepared to address. He had shared a bed with her sister, after all, he had shown her himself.  _But he had not kissed my sister._  Perhaps he was right to deny her in their dreams…but even so, he was also wrong to deny himself a simple bodily comfort. It _was_ different than sharing a bed with her sister, she knew that well enough, but she did not fear him touching her in any way she wouldn't want him to _. But he does,_ said a voice in her head.

Sansa tenderly traced the scab that ran across her chest; it was itchier now than it was painful, and that was almost worse. She had told him she would look on this scar and remember how he had taken care of her, but that was only half of the truth. As her fingers brushed over it, she also saw flesh ravaged by old wounds, a broad chest thick with hair, hair that plummeted down his stomach in a dark line, down, down…

She had never seen anything like it, for all her close encounters. She had seen a man's full nakedness before, of course, but the circumstances made all the difference. She thought of Tyrion, his manhood as cruel a jape as their marriage had been. The former had not been his choosing, but the latter surely had, and so she scorned them both the same. She had seen other men as well, had learned that the manhood was not half so scary as the man himself. The sight had nonetheless been jarring for her, that day she had been cut; perhaps even more unsettling, however, was how decidedly _not_ unsettled she was by the memory of it. She had seen him— _all_ of him, inside and out—and it had extinguished her inclinations towards him not at all. She wasn't sure if she felt ready to let him see _her_ , nor was she sure she was ready to see _him_ in that light again; but the feelings of revulsion at the idea no longer overtook her when she pondered on it.

She shivered. Would she stop him next time he tried? _Would_ he try? _He doesn't even want to be alone with me, let alone touch me._ The thought of wanting him in such ways put her at a war with herself; dozens of voices shouting at her all at once. Scornful, mocking, teasing, angry...she didn't know how to sort it out through all the noise. It was still a decision she didn't know how to make.

Sansa wrung out her hair and dressed, deciding she would let him make up his own mind when it came to matters of affection, and would not let her own impatience rob him of the opportunity to confront it on his own terms. She would address them when she came to them. _Or when he does._ He had told her he was to decide now, and she would continue to let him.  _But I will_ not _let him sleep on the floor like a dog_ , _either,_ she decided as she unraveled a tiny driftwood sparrow from her things, placing it on the dressing table. She thought of Lady, of the blind old hound in the Vale. _Dogs have always made the best sleeping companions besides._ It was different than sharing a bed with a little sister, there was no denying that...but it didn't have to be _inappropriate_.

She descended the stairs to the common area, where she found him sitting alone with an empty plate before him, a cup of wine in hand. When he saw her, he rose.

"Ursula," he murmured, inclining his head in a stiff greeting. She half-expected him to be drunk, but he seemed to have his wits about him still.

"Fyn," she returned, more kindly, meeting him at the table. "You'll fetch me when you're done?"

"I'll only be an hour," he replied gruffly. "I should be done by the time you finish supper. _Knock first_ ," he added, narrowing his eyes at her. She suppressed a laugh.

He turned to go upstairs, but Sansa took him by the arm to halt him. "I sleep where you sleep." She said, tone low but firm. "I'll let you decide where that might be."

He opened his mouth as if to argue, but then he closed it again, glaring around the busy room and then at her. Wordlessly, he shrugged roughly out of her grip and tore off up the stairs. Sansa's lips split into a small, victorious smile. _He can choose where he lays his head,_ she thought with satisfaction. _But he cannot choose where I lay mine._


	27. Sandor 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Is that what you want, to hurt me?" She asked coolly. "To frighten me?"
> 
> Sandor lifted his eyes, frowning. _No, Lady Sansa, it is you who frightens me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I took an informal poll over on the Tumblr blog to see which update people would prefer more, this fic or Once in a Blue Moon. Bizarrely, it was a perfect tie! So it was up to me (thanks a lot, GUYS!!). In the end, I decided on posting this one first because it's the one that is giving me the most anxiety, so it'll be easier to get this band-aid ripped off once and for all, LOL! This is a chapter I have been so, so nervous about publishing and that's why it's taken me so long to do so. xD I finally just had to squeeze my eyes shut and just DO IT!

The girl was bolder than he'd known her to be, but since when had she become _this_ fucking bold, and willful besides? Sandor splashed water on his face, unable to relax in the hot bath. He never thought he would be in a situation where _he_ was having to turn down invitations to share a woman's bed, least of all _hers_. _It's for her own good. And mine own._

Could she not see how easily one thing lead to another? Could she not understand that their purpose here was to lay low and stay safe, not to play at lovers? The dreams were already more than difficult for him to contend with; if it began to bleed over into his reality…

The fact that Sandor was thinking so much further ahead than she likely was— _The fact that I'm taking it so much more seriously than she is_ —only made him more resolved in his refusal. She was wise beyond her years, it was true; _but she is still young, and has much to learn._ It was difficult to keep that in mind sometimes, but it was necessary. He washed up quickly and set to work laying out his bedding on the floor, away from both the bed and the hearth. _She won't sleep on the floor, because I won't let her,_ he told himself. She was willful, but he was the definition of the word. He would meet her with resistance. He had to.

Sandor was pretending to sleep when the knock came at the door. When there was no answer she knocked again, louder this time, and he continued to ignore her. "Fyngal?" She called quietly, muffled through the wood; but still he held his silence.

Eventually, he heard the door slowly creak open. The room was dim, the only light coming from the smoldering embers in the hearth. He heard her sigh as she closed and latched the door behind, heard her cross the room to the bed, heard the rustling of bedsheets. _That's right,_ he thought triumphantly. _Just go to sleep, damn you._

More rustling. Then, suddenly, at his back came a heavy thump and whoosh of air as she threw the sheets onto the floor in one great pile. Sandor clenched his teeth as she padded swiftly after them, dropped to her knees and began fidgeting around at his back. She smoothed the bedding out and laid down, sighing again as she did so. He laid there in rigid silence all the while, head buzzing irritably. This was not a victory for her to have, he told himself as they both lay there, still as statues. _And she knows I'm not sleeping._

Sandor sat up abruptly, not giving her time to react as he spun around and scooped her up, blankets and all. She cried out and squirmed in protest, beating his chest with her strong right fist. He was half-tempted to throw her bodily onto the bed from across the sodding room, but he was mindful of her still-healing wound, so he took the few paces forward and placed her in the bed. He was sure to give it some measure of force, however.

"You stay there," he growled, jabbing a finger at her.

"How do you mean to make me?" She snapped, untangling herself and sitting up. He glared at her, going over the possibilities.

 _I could club you in the head, the way I did your sister,_ he thought darkly. _I could press down on your pretty windpipe until you passed out, would that be gallant?_

He could _make_ her do anything he wanted her to. He had that ability. But he also had that _choice_ now, and that guilt. _And, Gods be cunts, that love I bear her_.

He knew he would have to spend his life _convincing_ her if he wanted her to obey him; she would never be forced. _Not by me, not by anyone._ To judge by her audacity, she knew it too. It was dangerous information for her to have, although he'd said and done plenty to ensure she had it. _Much to my regret,_ he thought wryly.

In truth, it was _he_ who had always been forced by _her_ , from the moment she recognized him. It was she who had unmasked him, who had kissed him. It was she who had insisted he come with her, and she who had steered the direction of his fantasies without making him privy to the reality of them. She knew he would never have done any of those things on his own, and so she took it upon herself. Her desires didn't conflict with his own, yet that only made them worse. _Damn her._ _Damn it all._

"I'll sleep over there," he jabbed a thumb at his side of the room, still visibly irritated. "Until I can afford for us to have separate rooms." He threw his hands up. "So enough with this, I'm sick of it."

"We don't need separate rooms," Sansa said, the insolence going out of her.

"And we don't _need_ to share a bed," he sneered.

She bit her lip. "We don't _want_ separate rooms."

She was trying to trap him in a lie, he knew. "We don't always get what we want," he told her harshly. "Best get used to that."

"I am." Her voice was hard. "But it doesn't stop one from wanting."

Sandor felt his stomach turn over. "And what is it that you are in want of exactly, _my lady_?"

"For your accommodations to be equal to mine," she replied. "Surely the floor has done no favors for your leg?"

"Is that what you expect me to believe?" He snapped. "Spare me the false courtesy; my leg is fine." The limb was indeed stiff and painful when he awoke each morning, but it was nothing he couldn't bear, or new to him besides. Bed or no bed, there would always be pain there. It was the trade he'd made when he refused to sacrifice the leg altogether.

"What is it you _think_ I want?" She wondered. He glared at her.

"Playing stupid won't work on me, wolf girl," Sandor reminded her pointedly. _And I won't declare your intentions for you._

"I offer you no falsehood in my insistence; it matters a great deal to me, how you are accommodated. But..." She had the grace to blush as she continued. "It is _also_ true, when I go home...for the rest of my days, I shall sleep alone."

 _In body, maybe, but not in mind,_ he thought. "There are things we all must bear alone," he pointed out. "Do you think I should pity you for that?"

"Keep your pity," she said firmly. "I only don't believe I am worthier of comfort than you are."

"Best start believin', then," he sneered. "I don't need a bed for comfort besides."

Sansa shrugged. "You may sleep wherever you wish, that makes no matter to me."

"Good," was all he said in reply, turning his back on her. Almost immediately he heard her feet touch the floor, however, and he spun around to face her standing there, his lip curling into a snarl.

"Put your arse back in bed, or I will," he told her, his voice low and threatening. Her apparent immunity to it only served to anger him more.

"I sleep where you sleep," she reminded him. "That does not change."

In a moment of pure frustration, Sandor closed the space between them, put his hands out, and _shoved_ her back onto the mattress. He knew his folly in an instant, but it was too late by then. Sansa let out an agonized cry, clutching at her chest as tears sprang up to her eyes. He'd pushed her far harder than was necessary, even if he hadn't pushed on the most tender part of her. _And I've all but punched her there._

Sandor felt his ill temper turn to ash in his mouth. She was ashamed of her reaction, he knew, as she wiped furiously at her eyes. The tears only kept coming, unwanted and unbidden. _It is I who is shamed._

"I'm sorry," he blurted, reaching out to her, not knowing what else to do. "I didn't mean—"

Sansa slapped his hands away, sitting up on her own. "I'm fine," she snapped, even as a sob of pain gripped her by the throat.

Sandor went to his knees. He didn't know what to say, how to say it. His mouth was dry. He wanted to beg her forgiveness, but he had no rights to it. He wanted to draw her to him, promise her he'd never hurt her again, repeat the words over and over in her ear until she believed them. _But that wouldn't make it true._ Sandor's eyes fell to the floor, and he scowled at it. _I want everything she wants of me and more,_ he thought. _But I have nothing good to give, and I am ill suited to receive._

"Don't you see now," he murmured. "Only pain can come of this."

Her breathing began to calm, but her voice still had a wince to it when next she spoke. "Is that what you want, to hurt me?" She asked coolly. "To frighten me?"

Sandor lifted his eyes, frowning. _No, Lady Sansa, it is you who frightens me._ "I want you to want something else," he replied. "Something better." She would experience far better things than him later in life, but she had no concept of better things, for she had never seen them for herself. _Not yet._

She still had a hand to her aching chest as she regarded him, looking down on him without expression. She looked half a queen, although she was barely more than a shadow in the darkness of the room. He wondered if he looked half a peasant. _That would be more fitting._

"Tell me, then," she commanded. "Tell me what these better things are that I should be in want of. Knights?" She wondered, giving him a challenging look. "Princes? Some other family that I could not call my own? Tell me."

Sandor's mouth twitched. "I said better things, not worse," he told her. "What you should want is a crown on your brow and high castle walls about your shoulders; you should want to sit the highest seat at feasts and tourneys, garbed in silk and samite, and gold and jewels too. You should want servants for every task you don't wish to do yourself. You should want men to beg _you_ to warm their beds, not the other way around, and not a dog besides. That is not your story."

 _This_ _is only a small part in it,_ Sandor thought. He realized how very short their time together like this would be; even if it was as long as a year or two, it would still only be a few pages in her life. _The one waiting for her in Westeros._ She still had much to do and experience. Her abuse would end—to his mind, it had already ended—for he would be dead before he'd let her suffer the way she did again. Never again would he stand there and do _nothing_. He would never _truly_ have her, however. _In body or in mind._

He would always be there, that much was certain. What was less certain—what he pondered to the point of obsession, without it ever becoming more clear—was how things would likely change once she returned to her family's seat. There was one thought he always found himself falling back on: _nothing lasts forever._ Her enchantment with him certainly couldn't. What if the dreams were also only temporary? What then?

It would not be out of maliciousness—she did not have a malicious bone in her body—but that almost made it worse. Over time, he would become but a backdrop in her life, or she would one day realize he could never be enough for her. Sandor liked the thought of neither. _Wolf or Queen, she'll have no use for dogs._

What would his role be in her story? Where did it end? Where _could_ it end, that wouldn't turn him bitter? He'd told himself he would always be content with what he had...but how could he be, if she let him taste something better before snatching it away? Was she aware of the implications? Did she care? The more he thought on it, the more the answers eluded him, and the more frustrating it became.

Her face was contorting, and Sandor almost expected her to start weeping again. Her eyes, however, were glittering with something else. She was _smiling_ at him, he realized. She was watching him with her lips pressed tightly together as he stared back, nonplussed. When his head fell slightly to the side in his bemusement, she burst out _laughing_ , throwing her head back.

"What in the seven fucks is so funny?" He barked, suddenly feeling mocked. Sansa was able to compose herself abruptly, although she still smiled down at him.

"Why Sandor," Sansa said with bright eyes, even as storms raged in his own. "It seems to me that you believe in stories as much as I do."

Of course he didn't believe in stories. _But if anyone's life deserves to be lived like one, it's hers._ She reached down for his hands, and he had the urge to snatch them away from her out of spite. She took them in her own, her tone more sincere now. "The best stories are the ones you've never heard before. I happen to believe this makes a fine story; I should like to tell it someday."

From where he was standing, Sandor couldn't discern what about their journey so far would be worthy of retelling. He almost told her as much, but she was pulling at his arms now, beckoning him to rise. Slowly, he did rise, never taking his eyes off her. She grew somber; as somber as he felt, but her tone was resolved. "Sleep in this bed, and I will ask no more of you, even in dreams. I promise you that."

" _Liar,"_ Sandor scolded her. "You _will_ ask more of me, you always will." _If you don't circumvent the asking altogether, that is._

Her face fell somewhat, but then she set her jaw. "I will ask no more. But I am not asking now. I will not have you on the floor; you do not deserve that."

Sandor had the urge to argue, but none of the desire; so he yielded. " _One_ night," he told her, hoping to regain some measure of control. "I'll grant you one night to share your bed, and come morning you'll have it out of your head that anyone belongs there but you."

She considered that. "And if, come morning, I don't?"

"You'll live, surely," he said wryly. He was already trying to think of ways that might sour the idea for her, that didn't involve actually hurting her. _Again._ It didn't leave many options open, he found.

Sandor walked around the bed and lowered himself into it, staring up at the ceiling. He was lying so close to the edge that his right leg hung over it, foot planted on the floor. Even still, he took up a sizable portion of the damn thing. Sansa spread out the blankets before lying down herself; when she did so, she impudently crawled over and curled up under his left arm. Sandor didn't speak, the arm going rigid. _One night. One night of this torment._

They lay there in silence for a long time, so long that it became deafening. Things were so damn _quiet_ here at night, and the air was stiff with their wakefulness. Sandor wished she would drift off first, although he couldn't say why. The bed was soft, but there was no comfort in it; he realized he had never felt so uncomfortable in his life. It was usually he who made others feel such discomfort; it did not go the other way around. _She_ _is the exception_. She made him so uncertain of himself, constantly under scrutiny in a way he hadn't felt subjected to before. This was too intimate, too _real_ ; the air was stirring with how he tried to ignore it, and it felt almost too thick to breathe. He could feel her mind churning away at his side as well, showing no signs of stopping. It was distracting, and utterly maddening.

"Sandor?" she whispered into the void. He made a rumbling sound in reply, inexplicably anxious by her tone.

She turned her head up to look at him. "I've been thinking," she said in her quietest voice, one she had grown accustomed to using.

"There's a wonder," he said derisively.

"About what you said before," she went on, ignoring the comment. "About want and need."

There was definitely something in her tone he did not like. He made no reply but to concentrate even harder on the ceiling, his brow tightening.

"I do want the things you said I should...most of them, anyway," said Sansa thoughtfully. "But those are not the things I need, not truly. What I need…" She trailed off, searching. "I wanted a crown, once. Perhaps I want one still, but it is for duty—to the North, to Winterfell and the legacy of my house—not for myself. Every ally I have will be met tenfold with liars and manipulators. The men begging for my bed will be nothing more than greedy, selfish lords and shallow, covetous suitors. I will be home, but I will have to face all the ghosts that dwell there. The price I will pay for silk and samite will be high; having to make hard decisions, and being met with open scorn from my people when I choose wrong. War, Winter, disease, famine..."

"You'll be ready," he assured her. "You see crowns for what they are, and your fists aren't made from iron. Now go to sleep."

"You are kind to say so," she remarked, and his mouth twitched in the darkness. "But I need none of it, not truly. The Stark, perhaps...but not _me._ "

Sandor chuffed, and Sansa shifted slightly at his side. "Honesty, loyalty, trust...these are the things I need. Strength and ferocity to keep me safe, good dreams to keep me sane. I have all of that in you."

"You don't need me in your bed to have those things," he reminded her pointedly.

"I would ask no other man to my side," she said. "To my bed or in anything else. You are a man of honor, and so I trust you with mine."

" _Honor,_ " Sandor spat the word under his breath. "There are scores of men who would serve you better." Men far more comely than him, men who could share her bed and everything that transpired within it without bringing her shame, men who would provide her more than the small comforts she was entitled to already. He did not want her to want these men. _But I am a shit alternative_.

"There are scores more who would do me worse," she countered. "And none of them would love me."

Sandor went rigid all over at that, and she too seemed to grow tense. Silence became them once more. The air resumed its buzzing, swarming him with thoughts she was trying to articulate, even as he was swarmed with his own. _One night._ It was already longer than it had any right to be. This was a dangerous matter she was toying with. No matter what they wanted, it didn't make it _right_. _Or possible._ Was it ignorance that caused her to throw her senses to the wind, or deliberate rebellion? _Both, most like._ Did that make him angry, or proud? _Both again._

"I know you love me..." she spoke first, and tentatively. "I didn't think I'd ever know that feeling, so I supposed I would never need it. I do, though, more than anything. And I've never said—but I want you to know—"

Sandor kept his focus on the ceiling, his entire body set to tingling. "Don't say it," he rasped. _Don't tell me what I want to hear, just because you think I want to hear it._

She propped herself up on her good elbow, resting her left hand on his chest. He wondered if she could feel how his heart was pounding. "I want to." She paused. "Because I mean it, and I want you to know that too. There's so much I want you to know, and only one place to start."

Sandor ground his teeth together. "Go to sleep, girl. Or do I have to put you to sleep?"

"I'd rather say it here than there," she said softly, reminding him that there was no escape.

 _Have I not been tested enough?_ He could feel her stare on him, shameless and unrelenting. Almost pleadingly he said under his breath, "I'd rather you say nothing at all."

It didn't seem to matter. She pressed on anyway.

"So long as you love me, I will always have the things I need, even if I am denied the things I want." Sansa took a deep, shuddering breath. "It is not for a lack of better things, or better judgment; it is in spite of it, and I do not wish it different...as you love me, I—"

Something in him snapped. "Don't say it," he cut over her, half a snarl as he pushed her off him, far gentler this time but no less firm. "I don't want to hear it."

 _She doesn't know what she's saying,_ he thought to himself, just as he had when she'd been drunk on the poppy. _Not truly._ The suggestion that such feelings were mutual was laughable besides. _She thinks she knows, but she knows nothing._

"As you say," she replied. "There's a difference between want and need."

"What you _need_ is a clout in the ear," Sandor said brusquely, scowling at the ceiling and refusing to meet her gaze. "Might be I'll grant you one, if you don't stop your tittering."

Sansa was quiet for a moment, and with satisfaction Sandor supposed she was re-thinking the foolish gesture. She shifted and lay back down, and he felt himself begin to relax.

Then, so quietly it could have been the wind, she spoke the words without preamble. "I love you."

Sandor's eyes slid closed, willing himself to keep his wits. This was worse than asking, worse than forcing. This was a _confession_ ; meant for anyone but him, yet he was the one hearing it. And, _Gods be damned,_ they were the sweetest words he had ever heard.

"I know you are afraid," she whispered, when she received no reply. "So am I. But it's not a burden you need carry alone, and we will cross whatever bridges may come, together. But here...now...let this be the first."

He opened his eyes then, having to blink to focus himself; it felt as though the wind had been knocked out of him, but it wasn't a wholly unpleasant sensation. Slowly, Sandor shifted so that he was leaning back on his elbows, and his face was hard when his eyes found her in the dark. His voice was low and deliberate as he heard himself say, "Say it again, then. Say it to my face."

Her lips broke into a small smile, and Sandor watched her intently as she sat up, brought her hands forth to sign the words as she spoke them. "Sandor Clegane, I do love you. More and more each day, with every setting of the sun and each dawn that breaks...with every breath I draw, I love you. As my solace and my shield, as my truest friend..." She paused, biting her lip before she added, "And in every other way that it can be said: I love you."

Sandor let out a ragged breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, and with it came a sudden wetness on his cheeks. His ears were ringing with the words, softly said but loudly recalled, over and over, smothering him, and there was no sweeter way to drown. He not only heard the words; to his own astonishment, he _believed_ them. In her eyes was adoration, even _desire_ , without a trace of dishonesty to be found. He did not want it, to his mind he did not need it...but as Sandor stared at her, he felt something inside himself shift, begin to collapse. He had no words, and his throat was too tight to make them besides. He had opened this door for her in dreams without realizing it, he reflected. _And I've kept it propped open for myself._ He had made a beast of her, to love a beast as she did, when he'd meant to make her a Queen. _Or have I merely awakened it? Can a girl be both? Does it fucking matter?_

She reached out to brush the tears away, but Sandor caught her wrist. She let out a soft gasp, though whether it was from surprise or pain he could not say. _Fuck my honor and fuck hers,_ he thought, mouth twitching _. Fuck right and wrong, fuck the future, and fuck all the bloody bridges in the world. Fuck Elder Brother, fuck the gods too, old and new and red; fuck them all, and fuck their tests. Fuck me, for I am weak, I always have been._

"Fuck this," Sandor growled, growing suddenly impatient, too impatient for thought. Every instinct in his body was _screaming_ for him to act, and he was done trying to fight it. _Not if she's going to say things like that. Look at me like that…_

She let out a delighted "Oh!" as he abruptly drew himself forward so that his face loomed over hers. "And fuck the stories."

He may be just a chapter in hers, but for Sandor she had become the entire shitting tale. He couldn't control how his ended, but he could control _right now_. If there were consequences, so be it. _Fuck those too._ Sandor pulled her roughly to him, found the nape of her neck, and closed the space between them.

It was as explosive as two lances meeting each other in the tilt, and as saccharine as those cakes she liked so much. She was so feminine and yet so feral in the sounds of her desire, and the action besides. Her lips were soft, but her teeth were hard, and a yelp rose up his throat as she bit into him. She smothered the cry from without as the coppery taste of blood flooded him within, and she parted his lips, tasted it for herself.

"Sorry," she breathed, pulling back.

He was on her again in an instant. "Don't stop," Sandor said into her mouth, unable to keep the urgency from his tone. "Don't you dare." Sansa shivered, suckling at his broken lip; but it wasn't long before she was biting him again.

His touch was graceless and fumbling, he knew, but she didn't seem to notice. The world was spinning, and before long Sandor couldn't say which way was up. He couldn't say when he had put her on her back and lowered himself over her, but he was now moving against her rhythmically, in time with the soft tune of her delight, humming into his mouth. Were her hair not black as his, he might have thought he was dreaming. It was like in the dreams, yet entirely unlike it as well. _This is real._ Her flesh, her lips, the declarations of her love, all of it new and different and _real_.

It was when Sandor put a hand to a breast that her breath caught in her throat. "Sandor," she protested, muffled under his affections. "We can't...not here..."

He would never understand how touching her was more unseemly than his cock rubbing against her skirts, but he knew this to be her limit. _But not tonight._ There was no waking up from this, she could not escape him at her whim. _Does that frighten her?_ The thought brought him no satisfaction.

He removed the hand, bringing it to her face instead. "We won't," he promised. _But you can't run and I can't stop, and there's more than one way to skin a hare._ "Do you trust me?"

She looked up at him curiously. "Yes...of course."

"And do you love me, as you say?"

"Yes," She repeated. "yes, I do."

"And you want me?" He asked in a low voice. "Bugger need."

Her voice was quiet too as she replied with a pretty sigh, " _Yes."_

"Then relax," he whispered. "I won't hurt you." He kissed her again, fiercely, desperate for her to believe it. She could have his restraint or she could have his love freely given, but she could not have both. She had made her choice and now, he had made his.

Her breathing hitched again as he brought the hand back to her breast. "What do you mean to do?"

 _She's truly never been touched,_ he realized. _Not like this._ No man who put hands on her had ever brought her pleasure, only pain. Was this her equivalent of confronting fire? Sandor would show her how she deserved to be touched, how she deserved to be loved; he did not deserve the privilege, but nonetheless he had it, and he would not squander it. He would be mindful of her wounds, as mindful as she was of his.

"You put your love into a most improper place," he told her, squeezing lightly. She arched her back somewhat at the sensation, biting her lip. "And I mean to do most improper things to you, _my lady_."

"But we _can't_..." She said once more, reluctantly. "Not here…" She was fighting her desires in favor of her sense, but tonight she had blurred that line, and he was too drunk in his need of her to pay it any heed.

Sandor spoke into her lips, hoping to arouse her as much as ease her, for he wanted her to need him as well. "I want you _now_ ," he murmured, sliding a hand down the length of her slender frame. " _Here_." She shuddered. "I don't want your virtue. _Does_ my lady trust me?"

"I trust you," she breathed, although she was uncharacteristically timid. "But if not my virtue...?"

"Everything else," he replied, sliding the hand in between her legs. She gasped, went rigid at first. He smoothed her hair back with the other, kissing her neck as he caressed her; he felt her anxiety give way to arousal at long last, her breathing deepening as she trembled beneath him.

"I can't give you songs," he told her, though surely she already knew. "But that's what I'd have of you just now, if you will it."

"I don't need songs," she swallowed, her hips moving ever so slightly into him. "Only something to sing for."

Sandor felt as though his ribs might break, for how hard his heart did beat. "Love of my life," he said quietly into her ear. "Will you sing for me?"

"Love of mine," she answered, chest heaving as he pressed into her. "I would sing for no one else."

With renewed fervor, Sandor stole the promise from her lips with his own, and she devoured him without further hesitation. Both hands gripped him about the face as he kissed her, so hard that he had to pry them away with his own when he pulled away. A whimper escaped her; he laughed, kissed her fingers, and rose from the bed.

She didn't seem to comprehend at first, sitting up with a brow knitted in worry. _Does she think I could possibly leave her now?_ Sandor thought he saw understanding cross her features when instead he knelt on the floor. She was innocent in these matters, however, so it was difficult to be certain.

"You know the song I want," he rasped. "Don't you?" _Not your pretty cheeping._ She was a wolf, after all, and he meant to make her howl like one.

Sansa bit her lip; her answer came tentatively, and he knew she was blushing in the darkness when she said it. "The Bear and the Maiden Fair?"

It was not an answer he expected, and a short burst of laughter escaped him. "In a manner of speaking," he agreed, and she let out a shout of surprise as he took her by the ankles, pulled her roughly to him. "Will you play the part?"

Sansa wrung her hands together anxiously. Then she buried them in the bedsheets, looked him in the eye, and nodded.

Sandor observed her in silence for a moment, bathed in moonlight and looking at his terrible face with an expression he'd never expected to put there: lust. He was overcome by a brief moment of clarity on the edge of madness, and he saw his hands were shaking. _You would turn away now, if you had a shred of sense._ Nothing would be the same once such a deed was done, he knew, and a spasm of terror gripped his heart at the thought.

"If you don't like it," he said seriously. "You tell me to stop."

She nodded again, considering him thoughtfully. "What shall I tell you if I do?"

The ache was nearly unbearable. "If you like it," he told her, sliding his hands down her legs, underneath her skirts. "Words will fail you."

She did not speak again.


	28. Sansa 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aneesa was a kind girl, and had a friendly face to match. Although they had only just met, she sensed that she already had a friend in her, somehow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure: The next few chapters are a little shamelessly floofy, lmao. I think I was in a really fluffy mood IRL when I wrote them :3

Sansa sat in the Common Room at the Inn of the Green Eel, breaking her fast. He was seated across from her, and they resumed their hand language lessons as they ate. It was a familiar routine, but it was not the same. He would occasionally slip in words she already knew; pretty words, sometimes vulgar ones. From the look of him, one would never guess him capable of the absolutely _appalling_ things he had done to her last night. He looked a brute, however he did not look the kind whose manner ever gave anyone enjoyment. Yet Sansa had _enjoyed_ it. Her face reddened any time her memory circled back on it, and she was grateful to have an excuse to avoid his eyes in favor of his hands.

She had not intended for such a thing to transpire, had not expected him to receive her love in such a way. Sansa had not known what to expect, but he had given her only one night; her reservations had been thrown to the wind, in her efforts to keep him there. As she reflected on it, she found that no other outcome could have pleased her better.

_Oh, I am such a heathen!_ There was no better way to put it. Sounds had escaped her that she didn't recognize, and sensations gripped her that she never suspected she would feel; most especially at the end. An unexpected, overwhelming sensation it had been, the ghost of which still stirred within her every time she looked at him. She had heard of this feeling only in tales told by Mya and Myranda, and still she had never imagined it like _this_. There was nothing of its like to compare it to. Only men seemed to gain such a satisfaction from carnal matters, or so it _had_ seemed. Her wetnurse, her Septa, her lady mother...none had certainly ever told her otherwise. Sansa had never heard of a man and woman behaving in such ways outside of the Vale, and always supposed her friends over-dramatized such things just to redden her. _It reddens me still, Gods…_

Why had she never been warned of such a thing? _Such a wonderful thing._ It had been like a wave crashing over her repeatedly, setting her on fire and freezing her all at once. Jolting her, plunging her into blinding white light while simultaneously plummeting her into darkness, stars dancing all around her...Her body had felt like a waking limb all over, trembling as she came back down to the world, feeling her heart beating everywhere at once. She remembered twitching with sudden overstimulation as he continued to _lap_ at her; there was no other way to put that either, appalling as it was. That was when she realized she had been keeping a cruel grip on his hair, at least in her right hand, for the other had been at her chest. He didn't seem to mind. The way his eyes glinted in the moonlight when he turned them up to gaze at her had thrilled her on such a primal level, it made her wonder if he was right after all, to call her a wolf rather than a little bird. _But after_ that _, how could he possibly call me a lady?_

He had wiped his mouth on her skirts— _like a savage—_ and pulled himself to her, and then she to him. He murmured his love into her ear, nipping at it as he did so. She remembered how weak she had felt then, but it was a queerly comforting sort of vulnerability. She had fallen asleep there in his arms; not for the first time, though it was a first in other ways. _In all the ways that matter._ It had certainly been a pleasant way to fall asleep, and wake up to besides. _I am not alone,_ she often reminded herself. This morning, the thought had been lengthened.  _I am not alone, and I am loved._

Sansa bit her lip as she watched him wipe his mouth now, in exactly the same manner as the night before, signifying that he had finished his meal. She studied his manner a little more closely, and determined his uncouthness was not all bad. He was rough, but not ungraceful. His words were crude, but not unintelligent. His ugliness was but an illusion, to her seeing. His temper was short, but the Mother had gentled him. _Just how I asked._

He was Fyngal now, rising and patting her on the head, promising he'd return before sundown. He would be venturing out in search of work this day. She had almost forgotten.

Ursula was close with her father's friend, she had decided. He was her shield, after all, and any friend of her father's would be a friend to her. She thought of her true father, and wondered if he would have ever been fond of someone like Sandor. She decided he would, but only if he knew the man that stood before her, not the Lannister's Hound, as he had been. Sandor Clegane had a Northern look, and all great warriors had scars; her father was an honorable man, and he would see that Sandor had honor too. Eddard Stark would see someone gentle and brave and loyal, and worthy. _Wouldn't he feel proud of me?_  Surely, he would. _But I will never know for sure._

She rose and put her arms around him, and he returned the embrace stiffly with one arm, mussing her hair with the other. "I wish you luck," She smiled up at him. She could still see the place on his lip where she had bitten him, dark and red. He noticed her looking at it, his mouth twitching.

"Be careful," he said sternly, placing a finger under her chin. "Do not leave this place while I am out, you hear me?"

It was difficult to look into his eyes and play her part; he seemed to be having an easier time of it. _What would Ursula say?_ Ursula, who had not been kissed so fiercely it made her lightheaded. Ursula, who should not be recalling such sensations in her nethers as she looked at the man before her, who had no reason to have such color in her cheeks. _Think, think. How would Ursula think?_ She had been foolish, not to get to know her better on the journey here. It felt too much like the worst was all behind her; sometimes she forgot that the worst was always yet to come. 

Ursula made a face at him. "As _my lord_ commands," she said with a smirk, for she was surely of a similar manner to her companion. It gave her a sense of satisfaction to pay him back in kind for all the mocking _my ladys_ of late.

"Watch your tongue, girl," he scolded, though she thought she saw him smirking when his mouth twitched.

"I shall," She replied. She lifted her hands and added,  _'Shall I also watch yours?'_

He was taken unaware by that, and she bit back a laugh at the expression that flashed across his face. But then he took a step back from her, and almost lazily replied:  _'Feast your eyes, so long as you feast my ears.'_ That made her suck her lip in. _Does he really mean to do that again?_ It amused him to fluster her so, it would seem. There was an undertone of mirth to his voice when he finally bade her goodbye, turned on a heel and strode off.

Ursula went to the window seat to watch him go. Stranger—now Driftwood once more—would be glad to get some exercise, she thought as she watched him pass by the window moments later with his master astride him. Ursula's gaze fell on something else then, a figure standing curiously still amidst the bustle of the other people in the street.

She squinted her eyes at them, trying to peer into the shadows cast by their hood. It gave her a sense of deja vu, for it reminded her of the times she had attempted to get a closer look underneath Sandor's hood, failing to see properly until she lowered the hood once and for all. It was sprinkling rain this morning, the fog obscuring her vision even more. She had the urge to march out there, and as she had unhooded Sandor, to unhood them as well. She couldn't explain the impulse; only that their presence unnerved her, and not having a face to put to memory further disturbed her.  _They're small,_ Sansa had to keep reminding herself.  _A child, hungry and dressed in rags. They are not my enemy._

"Is that your father, who you are with?" Came a light voice, thick with the Braavosi accent. Ursula turned her gaze around to see Aneesa standing behind her, smiling. Ursula realized just then that her heart was hammering in her chest, and took a deep breath. 

"My true father is dead," she replied gently, a sad smile upon her lips. "Fyngal promised him he would keep me safe, though." She looked back out the window, but the figure was gone. Ursula felt strangely disappointed by that, but turned her full attention to the innkeeper's daughter now, pleased to have some company.  _And a distraction._

Aneesa bowed her head. "I am sorry; I assumed."

Ursula reached out, covering the girl's hand with her own and smiling encouragingly. Aneesa was a kind girl, and had a friendly face to match. Although they had only just met, she sensed that she already had a friend in her, somehow. "It's all right," she replied. "It was some time ago. Let us speak of happier things."

She searched the room for inspiration, but came up short. The Common Room was plain in decor, and the other visitors were mostly tired men who had come to find lodging after long sea travel. She made a mental note of their faces, for she was wary of spies, even here. If a face became too familiar, she would need watch them.

Finally she said, "Did you make your dress yourself? It's very lovely."

It was a simple garment, dark green and crudely stitched, but the compliment made the girl beam proudly. "I did, thank you," she confirmed, receiving the courtesy as an invitation to join her where she sat. "Sometimes we get Mummers, and they make their own costumes, you know. Sometimes, they offer to teach me how. I am not very good, but I can get us by, so it is just as well."

She looked at her curiously. "Your mother didn't teach you?"

"She died," Aneesa replied casually. When she saw the pained look that gave her she added, "It is all right. _Valar Morghulis,_ Ursula."

She felt stupid as well as contrite. "What?"

"It is an old Valyrian saying," she explained lightly. "It means, _All Men Must Die_. The same could be said of women, I think. I was very young, when the fever took her. So do not fret, I do not. Happier things, yes?"

"Please," smiled Ursula, though she wondered if all conversations had to lead to sadness eventually, whether you wanted them to or not. She yearned for the days when she and Jeyne Poole could talk for hours about silly things, with never a sad tale to tell. The longer you lived, however, the less things were silly and the more they were sad.

"I could teach you," she added. "How to stitch. It's been so long since I've had someone to practice with." Her deadened arm would benefit from it besides.

Aneesa's eyes lit up at that. "I would be delighted to learn! I have many old things we could use, too."

"Then it is settled," she declared. "It will be a pleasant way to pass the time while Fyngal is out."

"Where has he gone?" Aneesa wondered.

Ursula looked out the window again, wondering much of the same. "He hopes to find work here; we don't know how long we shall be staying for."

Aneesa seemed pleased by that. "I hope you stay awhile," she admitted. A little sheepishly she added, "It is not often that our visitors make for good company, is all...not for your patronage."

"Good company is quite rare," Ursula agreed, turning her eyes back to her and smiling. "And we do hope to be good patrons as well."

"What has brought you two to Braavos?" the girl asked next, drawing her feet up into the seat with her.

Ursula was prepared for such questions; she had discussed them with her companion in advance.

"Between war and Winter, Westeros is a difficult place for the common people to live," she said, not untruthfully. "Comfort is in short supply there, as is everything else."

The subject had turned sad again. She hated it.

"You have come to the perfect place, then," Aneesa replied, noticing her face had fallen. "Do not let our gloomy weather fool you! Braavos is the greatest city in the world."

Ursula forced up a laugh. "Have you ever visited another city?"

"When you live in the greatest city in the world, one is not inclined to stray from it," she responded with pride. "Everything I need is here; fresh water falls from the skies, fresh fish is pulled from the seas. Our people are free, our bounty is plentiful, and there are always new faces to behold." The girl gestured to her, and Sansa gave a conceding nod in return. Then she leaned forward, as though to ask something in secret.

"But do you have lemons?"

They both laughed. "I must admit, we do not. But sometimes the ships will bring them, and that is just as well."

Aneesa's father brought them a carafe of wine with a platter of cheese and bread, kissing his daughter's brow before going to sit before the fire. He listened to them as they talked, although he understood little of the common tongue.

Aneesa, on the other hand, was very fluent; she explained that she had grown up in this Inn, and had absorbed several languages over the years. Ursula found that to be quite impressive, and showed her the only other language she had: the hand language. They traded different words for a time, giggling whenever a crude one was suggested. They had eventually become too ribald to be allowed, bellies aching from suppressed fits of laughter.

"What else can you tell me of this place?" she wondered. "It is so different from what I am accustomed to."

Aneesa was thrilled by the opportunity to talk about her home, having never known anything else. She was also interested in knowing how Ursula's experiences differed, and they exchanged stories for hours as the rain poured in earnest outside.

Ursula found herself most taken by stories about the Bravos and Courtesans, the latter of which were most different from the womanly customs of Westeros. According to Aneesa, they held a high status among the people, when the Westerosi equivalent was held to the lowest status. In fact, Ursula supposed Westeros had no equivalent, for surely Braavos still had brothels. No woman could ascend to such prestige without a man standing in front of her. _Hadn't Cersei been a living testament to that?_ It saddened her that a Courtesan was perhaps the highest station a woman could reach on her own, and yet it still relied on the approval of men.

Sansa learned much about the Bravos too, and determined they were as close as the Braavosi came to Westerosi Knights, especially in ego. They dressed in flamboyant colors and swaggered through the streets, always looking for a challenge to display their skills. Aneesa related to Ursula that her father had once been a Bravo, but in recent years had lost his strength to gout, and slept a lot these days. She also told her that that anyone who was seen outside with a sword after dark was offering themselves up for such a challenge, and Bravos fought to the death. She made a mental note to not let Sandor out of her bed once the sun went down, even without a sword. _It's where he belongs,_ Myranda teased.

Thinking of the bed and what had transpired in it brought the color to her cheeks again. Aneesa eyed her curiously.

"What is it you are thinking of?" She asked, half-laughing. Ursula willed her thoughts to travel somewhere else. They were for Sansa, not her. It was an effort, however, to pry herself in two. It had been easier before. _Before I was whole._

"Fyngal says he's to teach me how to use a blade," she said. "Mayhaps he could teach us both." Aneesa laughed again.

"I mean no offense, Ursula, but your Westerosi methods of sword play are of little use here," she said, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "My father always says so; the brutes of the West have not the grace nor the speed of our Bravos."

Ursula scoffed playfully at that. "Fyngal could dance circles around your Bravos," she said matter-of-factly. She felt absurdly indignant by the suggestion that Sandor wasn't the most skilled warrior on the planet. It made Aneesa equally as much to hear it suggested that he might be.

"Westerosi hacking and slashing is no match for the water dance, they cannot even be compared!" She insisted, incredulous. Ursula turned her nose up.

"Be that as it may," she conceded, "the greatest fighters adapt to any style. Fyn _is_ such a fighter."

"Was he a Knight?" the girl asked, interested.

He would have an ugly reply for that, she knew, if he were here. "No," she answered simply. "Better."

"Better than a Knight?" It was Aneesa's turn to be confused. Ursula smiled.

"Few Knights live up to the songs, I've learned," she told her. "And Fyngal could defeat the best of them."

"But not the best of Braavos," Aneesa maintained stubbornly, grinning.

They argued back and forth about the different styles of fighting, though it held no animosity. Neither of them could boast any intimate knowledge of the skill to start with; when basic knowledge ran short, the argument took a turn towards inappropriate once more.

"Let us talk no more of fighting," Ursula finally suggested, giggling breathlessly. "Surely there are better subjects for us to explore."

And so they did. Aneesa told her much and more about her culture, from the food to the clothing to the trading which employed so many of her people.

"Will you both be looking for work?" Aneesa was now asking, when she caught Ursula glancing out the window again, where the sky was beginning to darken. _Where is he?_

"Maybe," she shrugged. "I would like to make myself useful, but Fyngal will insist I remain here."

Aneesa regarded her thoughtfully. "Can you cook and clean?"

"I clean better than I cook, but I have learned a little," Ursula admitted, as Alayne remembered brother Brandon.

"Then you should work here," Aneesa suggested simply.

That took her aback. "That is generous of you to offer, but it's too generous, I couldn't—"

"You could!" Said the girl over her, eyes bright. "And you should. My father cannot offer much, but we have needed more hands around here for awhile now. Your Fyngal's wishes would be honored, and I would be glad as well. It will not be every day that I can sit with you like this!" She laughed.

Her chest swelled, and Ursula smiled. "I would be happy to serve however I can, then, and earn my lodging."

" _Valar Dohaeris,"_ Aneesa nodded solemnly.

"All men must die?" She wasn't sure how that phrase fit in. The girl laughed.

"No, _Morghulis_ means die. _Dohaeris_ means serve. But you are fast to learn! I can teach you how to cook," Aneesa went on enthusiastically. "It will be fun, you will see! Father will be pleased too. Most of our extra help comes from desperate travelers or dirty beggars, you will be more pleasing on the eyes for our guests." She giggled, and Ursula joined her, although the idea of that unsettled more than it flattered. Then her mind wandered back to the children begging out in the streets. The ones that seemed to beg less than they stared. _We have come to a strange place._

Aneesa shifted in her seat, curling her legs under her and making herself more comfortable. "And you have arrived at a very good time of year," She was saying now, sobering.

"Why is that?" Ursula asked, thinking that any time of year that was Winter couldn't be terribly popular.

"The Uncloaking is soon," explained the girl passionately. "It is a _festival_. Each year, for ten days, Braavos becomes a shining jewel of merriment and lantern light in all the canals. It is a shame Winter has come, but that does not stop Braavos!"

"A _festival?"_ Ursula's eyes had grown wide. The rest of the world was at war, and Braavos was preparing to feast and dance for ten days? _We have come to a strange place,_ she thought again. _But it is a wonderful place._ "It's happening soon? What's the reason?"

"Yes, soon," Aneesa nodded. "Seven days from now. Braavos was founded by former slaves of old Valyria, did you know?" Ursula nodded. She didn't know much about the free city, but that much she did know.

"Braavos was a refuge for the escaped slaves," she offered.

"Indeed," the girl nodded again. "So the city was inhabited in secret for a long time. For that reason, everyone wears masks during the festival, ending in The Uncloaking on the final day. It is a celebration of the day Braavos finally revealed itself to the world, 111 years after its founding. At midnight on the tenth day, the Titan _roars,_ and everyone removes their masks together as one."

"That's beautiful," Sansa breathed, clutching her chest. "Oh, I hope to go!"

Aneesa laughed. "It will be all around you! You will not miss it. I shall help you with your mask as well, for the best masks cannot be bought in stores."

Ursula was flush with wine and laughter when the door to the Inn opened and Fyngal ducked inside at long last, dripping wet from the rain. The sun was setting outside the windows. She rose, and Aneesa draped an arm over her seat to watch as she crossed the room to meet him.

"You look a drowned man," she laughed. _'I missed you'_

His mouth twitched _,_ but he said nothing.

"Did you find any work?"

"Aye," He confirmed, stepping more fully into the room and shrugging out of his cloak. It was sopping wet and dripping as he draped it over an arm, and the clothing underneath fared no better. "Wasn't hard. I found work on the docks within an hour...so long as I keep my face covered," he laughed under his breath. "Bloody fine by me." She followed him to the table she had come from, and he nodded a greeting to Aneesa before taking the carafe, drinking straight from it.

"Where were you this whole time, then?" Ursula asked, confused.

"Riding, mostly," he said baldly. "We both needed to stretch our legs, damn us. Was I gone too long?" He asked, looking between the two girls inquiringly as he pulled a chair over for himself.

"Not at all," Ursula replied, resuming her seat. "Aneesa here was fine company."

"Good," He grunted, emptying the carafe and setting it back down, placing a coin down with it. "Fetch me more wine, and something to eat," he ordered to Aneesa. She obeyed, rising quickly and setting off to the kitchen.

"I may have found work as well," she told him proudly as he wrung out his hair on the floor. "Aneesa says I could help out around here."

"That's not necessary," he said gruffly. "Don't let these people make a servant of you."

"I want to," she insisted. " _Valar Dohaeris."_

He made a face at her. "The fuck's that mean?"

"All men must serve," she said simply. "Aneesa taught me."

He snorted. "You don't look like a man to me, and I think I would know, wouldn't I? Besides, proverbs like that are just pretty-sounding words made up by men to make dogs feel important."

"Be that as it may," Ursula replied. "I will go mad if I do nothing."

"You're already mad," he remarked under his breath.

Aneesa returned then, bearing a bowl of stew and cup of wine. Fyn muttered a word of thanks, wasting no time with courtesies as he tucked in. _He doesn't savor his food,_ Ursula observed. _Not the way he savored me._ She shivered.

The girl left them to join her father at the fire, speaking to him in her native Braavosi tongue. Every now and then, she would gesture to Ursula, and he would look over at she and Fyn sitting there. When she returned, she was smiling. "My father says he would be delighted by your help."

Ursula thought her father looked more indifferent than pleased, but she made no remark. "I am delighted to hear it," she said instead.

"I shall leave you, then," said Aneesa. Ursula could see that she felt uncomfortable around her companion. _I feel it too._ It did feel uncomfortable; the setting was all wrong for where her mind was. "Tomorrow I shall fetch you!"

Fyn hastily wiped his mouth and turned in his seat. Aneesa halted so suddenly, it was as though he'd put an arm out to block her. "She doesn't work while I'm here," he declared. Aneesa smiled nervously. While his hair covered most of it, Ursula noticed how her eyes lingered on the burned half.

"Of course, m'lord." She bowed. "Whatever you require." He sneered.

"I am no _lord_ , best learn that first." He rose, draining his cup. He seemed to note her discomfort as well. "Don't end your merriment on my account, the night's still young and so are you. I'm going to dry off and turn in besides."

He mussed Ursula's hair before trudging off up the stairs, dripping water all the way. The thought of the bed again made her face burn. How could she think of that right now? How could she think of anything else? How long should she wait before joining him?

Once he was out of sight, Aneesa began to giggle. "What is it?" Ursula asked.

The girl resumed her seat across from her. "You are so lovely, you would probably make a fine Courtesan if you wanted to. Yet he is perhaps the ugliest man I've ever seen. You make an odd pair." She laughed again. Ursula felt her smile curdle.

"That is unkind," she said coolly. _And you haven't seen enough men, to think him the ugliest. You've never seen Littlefinger, or Tyrion._

Her new friend sobered at that, suddenly looking contrite. "I am sorry, I did not mean it that way—"

"Yes you did." she cut through her. "I would be dead were it not for him, however. He sacrificed all to see me here alive. He is a good man, so I will hear no more of his looks."

The moment was an awkward one, but it passed quickly. Ursula could not fault her for first impressions, so she bore her no ill will over them, and changed the conversation quickly to something lighter. They spent the rest of their time together by the fire, taking turns braiding each other's hair while Aneesa told her more about the upcoming festival.

It was late when Ursula ascended the stairs at last, slipping back into Sansa once more. Her stomach fluttered as she reached out for the door to the room they shared. They hadn't discussed whether they would share the bed again. _Surely we will, after last night..._

Sandor was sitting in front of the fire when she entered, clad in his Novice's robes as his soaked clothing hung over a chair to dry. Her heart sank to see his bedding remained laid out on the floor. He had his carving knife out, a pile of shavings at his feet as he chipped away at the wood in his hands. He ceased his progress as she approached, looking up at her.

"They didn't have you down there scrubbing plates, did they?"

Sansa rolled her eyes as the door snapped shut behind. "No, but mayhaps tomorrow they shall. What are you making?" She came closer, interested.

When she came within his reach, Sandor hooked an arm about her waist and brought her into his lap. Suddenly, she forgot about the bedding.

"Why don't you see for yourself?" he suggested, holding the half-finished object up for her to take. She took a moment to observe it in his overlarge hand; rough but not ungraceful, with long fingers that always seemed to be dirty in the nailbeds, even after scrubbing them. She blinked.

"A dagger?" she asked, taking it in her hands. It was still rough and crudely shaped, but it was easy enough to recognize.

"Aye," he confirmed. "Everyone trains with wood before steel, and so shall you."

She laughed, the intensity from moments before gone as soon as it hit her. "Are lessons really necessary? Wouldn't I just…" She made a jabbing motion. "Poke?" He laughed.

"That's part of it," he agreed. "Were it that simple, everyone would do it. Go ahead," he spread his arms out. "Try to _poke_ me."

Sansa eyed him with uncertainty, then the wooden dagger in her hand. She looked back to him. _This is silly,_ she thought. _And yet...isn't that what I wanted?_ The wicked part of her wanted to rid his eyes of that gloating look besides. She pulled the dagger back, feigning a threatening stance. Still holding his arms out, Sandor smirked at her, displaying how threatened he felt. Then she plunged the dagger forward to his chest, as quickly and suddenly as she could; he caught her wrist before the strike landed, however, gripping it so hard that her hand opened involuntarily and the dagger clattered to the floor.

Sandor loosened his hold, kissing her there and laughing under his breath. "You actually went for it," he said, looking proud. "That's a good place to start." He then lowered his voice, increasing the pressure at her waist. "But you were too slow and predictable. Your swing was too weak."

The fluttering returned. The heat of the fire warmed her from behind as the heat of his body warmed her in front, and Sansa almost forgot once more that the worst was always yet to come, rather than all behind her. She almost forgot that Winter had come, and had only just arrived. And yet, she also forgot how sad that all made her, just then. "I didn't want to hurt you," She said, brushing his hair out of his eyes. "I don't want to fight."

"One day you might have to," he reminded her.

"One day, but not this day," she countered. "This day's sun has already passed; let this subject pass with it."

"What subject belongs to the moon, then?" He asked quietly, sliding a hand up her back until it found her neck. "What is it you wish to do by night?" Sansa shivered, and she felt it go through him too. She pressed a cheek to his, and sighed into his ear.

"I want to sing."


End file.
